THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Anton  V.  Long 


POEMS 


BY 


LANGDON    ELWYN    MITCHELL 

"JOHN  PHILIP    VARLEY" 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIKFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

press,  <JEambriDjje 
1894 


Copyright,  1894, 
BY  LANGDON  ELWYN  MITCHELL. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


/VJ'7/1/'? 


TO  MY  FATHER 


91641 


The  present  hour, 

The  winds  that  blow,  the  thoughts  that  rise,  the  flower 
That  blossoms,  Love  now  warm  and  good, 
This  hour  of  the  world's  time,  and  nature's  mood,  — 
These  be  my  strength,  my  stay  ! 


CONTENTS. 


MM 

AT  SEA 1 

NEARING  LAND 1 

SUNRISE  IN  NEW  YOKK  HAKBOR 2 

TRUE  CAPTIVITY 5 

MY  COMRADE 5 

IN  MAY 7 

THE  HOLY  HOUR 7 

THE  FALLEN  LEAF 8 

LEGEND 9 

THE  WEARY  KINO 11 

THE  APPLE-TREE 13 

THE  CHILD  AND  THE  TWILIGHT 14 

NIGHTFALL  IN  WINTER 15 

"WHO  IS  SHE  THAT  YOU  LOVE?"  .        .        .        .        .  17 

THE  LITTLE  EASTERN  PRINCESS 18 

THE  COMFORT  OF  THE  GRASS 22 

Loss 25 

THE  HIDDEN  RIVER 29 

THE  MOMENT 31 

FROM  A  CITY  WINDOW     .  • 34 

BENEDICTION 34 

AT  CHILD'S  PLAY  IN  THE  WOODS 35 

AN  APRIL  FLOWER 36 

DESIRE 37 

LIKENESSES 38 

THE  OLD  TOWN  BY  THE  SEA 41 


vi  CONTENTS 

MOTHER  AND  CHILD 42 

A  TALE 46 

CHANGE 78 

THOUGHTS 78 

THE  AMULET 79 

IN  FOREIGN  LANDS 80 

To  AN  ACTRESS .        .        81 

PROLOGUE  TO  AN  AMERICAN  PLAY 85 

LOVE .87 

FALSE  LOVE 93 

PEACE 94 

DELIGHT 95 

A  SOUTHERN  NIGHT          ....  96 

To  A  WRITER  OF  THE  DAY 97 

DAVID 107 

THE  JOURNEY. 

UNREST 109 

THE  JOURNEY  BEGUN 110 

THE  MILL HI 

AUTUMN ...      Ill 

WINTER ...  112 

THE  KUINED  HOUSE 112 

SPRING 113 

THE  FINAL  VOICE 114 

THE  JOURNEY  ENDED 115 


POEMS. 


AT  SEA. 

As  the  first  beams  of  morning  faintly  wooed 
The  maiden  East,  our  ship  with  steady  motion 
Plunged  through  the  vast  and  heaving  solitude  ; 
Around  her  was  the  black  expanse  of  ocean, 
Above  her  was  the  blue  —  and  fast  she  fled ; 
A  bright,  perpetual  fountain  at  her  prow 
Leaped  from  the  brine  ;  like  clouds  her  sails  were 

spread, 

And  bellied  in  the  wind  as  white  as  snow. 
Gunwale  and  deck  were  wet  with  morning  dew  ; 
A  smooth  and  oiled  calm  behind  us  flowed, 
A  stream  of  quiet  stretching  to  the  blue ; 
And  easy  as  delight  our  proud  ship  rode 
A  sea,  that  like  a  lover  round  her  threw 
His  arms,  and  clipt  her  in  a  blissful  mood. 


NEARING  LAND. 

THUS  as  we  sped,  the  bright  sun,  o'er  the  sea 
Drawing  his  host  of  clouds,  passed  down  the  west, 


2          SUNRISE  IN  NEW   YORK  HARBOR 

And  sank  with  all  his  splendor  silently  ; 

But  ere  he  fell  from  heaven,  he  seemed  to  rest 

His  weakened  majesty  upon  the  flood 

Of  the  sustaining  water,  and,  all  fair, 

Looked  back  in  light  across  the  evening  air, 

Changing  dark  ocean  to  his  golden  mood. 

He  sank ;  and  his  warm  smile  died  fast  away. 

Eve,  lightless,  fell ;  the  rapid  waters  seethed 

Ceaselessly  by.     Our  good  ship  onward  rushed ; 

Soft  blew  the  breeze ;   stars  rose ;  on  high  there 

flushed 

Faint,  roseate  light,  and  airs  from  heaven  breathed ; 
And  all  night  long  we  waited  for  the  day. 


SUNRISE  IN  NEW   YORK   HARBOR. 

i. 

THE  sun  rose  softly  through  warm  mists  of  spring, 

And  from  the  unseen  shore  a  caroling 

Of  birds  was  borne ;  it  was  the  morning,  fair 

And  windless ;  a  deep  calm,  a  tranquil  air. 

And  though  the  mist  wrapt  us  from  land  and  town, 

The  smell  of  the  ploughed  fields  from  furrows  brown 

And  freshly  turned,  across  the  water  blew 

A  pleasant  greeting ;  till  the  white  mist  drew 

Aside,  and,  fleeting  upward,  passed  away 

In  the  clear  heaven ;  and  we  saw  the  day, 

And  earth,  and  that,  behind  us  the  dark  sea, 

We  lay  in  harbor  where  we  wished  to  be, 


SUNRISE  IN  NEW  YORK  HARBOR  3 

II. 

Then  we,  who  had  been  absent  from  our  Land 
Too  long,  looked  gratefully  on  the  bare  sand 
And  earth  even  of  her  shore ;  and  as  our  ship 
Moved,  eagerly  we  watched  the  green  hills  dip 
And  run  behind  us,  till  on  the  far  right 
Sloping  they  sank,  and  open  to  the  sight 
Left  the  broad  bay ;  and  o'er  the  waters  fair, 
Breathing  with  mist,  softly  through  the  soft  air, 
Mysteriously  shadowed  in  the  dew, 
The  city  swam  all  slowly  into  view. 
But  as  we  gazed,  the  sun  from  heaven  wrought 
Upon  her  beauty  :  —  tower  by  tower  she  caught 
The  morning,  till  at  last  the  harbor  wide, 
Green  hills,  still  water,  and  on  every  side, 
Distant  and  near,  white  sails  and  whiter  steam 
Dissolving  as  it  breathed,  flushed  in  the  beam 
And  splendor  of  the  day  :  —  she  seemed  to  be 
A  faery  city  on  a  faery  sea ; 
For  every  rosy  wharf  and  rosier  tower 
Was  imaged  in  the  stream,  and  for  that  hour, 
Throned  on  a  shadow,  she  did  seem  to  have 
For  her  foundation  neither  earth  nor  wave, 
But  in  the  air  to  hang,  on  air  to  float, 
Lying  in  calm,  immortal  and  remote, 
Light,  tranquil  and  un vexed  —  as  it  might  seem 
Earth,  sleeping,  dreamed  of    beauty :  —  this   the 
Dream. 


4          SUNRISE  IN  NEW   YORK  HARBOR 

III. 

The  world  is  full  of  pleasure,  full  of  peace, 
Full  of  delight :  the  clouds  in  their  increase 
Are  joy,  in  their  departure  joy ;  how  good 
Are  all  the  motions  of  our  human  blood ! 
The  vernal  influence,  the  flowers  of  May 
And  fruit  of  fall :  —  all  things  that  pass  away 
In  birth,  in  being  and  in  passing  are 
How  dear  to  us  I  how  infinitely  fair 
Love  passing  not  away !  and  man's  deep  faith 
Unshakable,  and  the  sweet  thought  of  death  : 
That  happy  change,  the  rising  of  the  dew 
To  heavens  it  knows  not  of,  that  once  it  knew. 
These  are  the  world's  delights,  and  with  these  then 
There  is  a  rare  but  kindred  one :  't  is  when 
After  long  exile  we  return  again 
To  our  loved  country,  to  our  blessed  Land, 
The  mother  of  our  hearts,  and  as  we  stand 
Hearing  the  speech  that  we  have  hungered  for, 
Know  all  is  well,  it  is  no  foreign  shore, 
Passed  are  the  endless  fields  of  ocean's  foam, 
Passed  the  green,  moving  waste :  —  we  are  at  home. 

And  such  a  mighty  bliss  it  seemed  to  me, 
And  such  a  stepping  into  liberty, 
Then,  when  I  saw  those  hills,  those  woods,  all  clear  j 
And  every  moment  as  our  ship  drew  near 
And  nearer,  saw  how  gracious  and  how  free 
The  city  from  her  towers  looked  toward  the  sea ; 
And,  straining  o'er  the  waters  to  the  strand, 
Felt  my  heart  leap  toward  my  native  Land ! 


MY  COMRADE 


TRUE  CAPTIVITY. 

THE  wild  hawk,  silent  in  his  cage, 
Sits  in  no  sacred  hermitage. 

His  use  of  life  and  only  prayer 
Is  swiftness  in  the  light  and  air. 

His  psalm  of  praise,  the  cry  that 's  flung 
Far  downward  to  his  nestling  young. 

His  busy  joy,  at  even,  late, 

To  scream  and  circle  with  his  mate. 

The  captive  lark  will  sing  and  throw 
His  voice  where  he  may  never  go. 

He  hath  the  heaven  that  he  sings ; 
But  my  wild  hawk  hath  only  wings ! 


MY  COMRADE. 

CHANCELLORS  VILLE. 

I  HAD  a  comrade  that  have  none ! 
I  buried  him  ere  break  of  dawn ; 
I  scooped  the  earth  up  and  I  gave 
His  body  to  that  shallow  grave. 

'T  was  yestermorn  when  we  set  forth, 
As  proud  as  if  we  were  not  earth  ; 


MY  COMRADE 

We  had  no  heed,  we  were  as  gay 
As  suns  in  heaven,  or  flowers  in  May. 

We  met  the  foe,  we  fiercely  fought ; 
But,  oh,  what  blast  of  evil  thought 
Withered  our  Captain's  heart  ?     'T  was  he, 
Our  chief,  was  conquered,  and  not  we ! 

We  must  withdraw !     All  sick  and  sad, 
We  turned  our  faces  and  obeyed ; 
As  sullenly  we  fought,  't  was  then 
He  fell —  and  did  not  rise  again. 

But  when  the  battle's  roar  was  done, 
As  towards  the  morn  the  mists  begun 
To  creep  o'er  all,  I  found  my  way 
Back  to  the  hollow  where  he  lay. 

He  lay  all  stiff  and  stark  and  cold ; 
His  blood  had  damped  the  mossy  mould ; 
And  as  I  touched  my  brother's  clay, 
The  dews  of  heaven  upon  it  lay. 

I  scooped  a  grave,  if  grave  it  were, 
To  hide  him  from  the  sun  and  air ; 
And  gave  him  one  last  kiss,  and  then 
Shoved  in  the  earth  and  leaves  again. 

I  had  a  comrade  that  have  none  ! 
Dear  as  my  life  was  he  to  me  ! 
Would  I  were  dead  before  the  sun, 
And  would  that  I  had  died  for  thee  I 


THE  HOLY  HOUR 


IN   MAY. 

IT  is  the  May,  the  winter  's  gone, 
The  windflower  's  in  the  forest  blown, 
And  all  the  brooks  are  filled  with  rain ; 
And  April's  Star  is  come  and  gone ; 
And  if  thou  do  not  come  again, 
And  if  thou  do  not  come  again, 
My  heart  that  did  like  earth  repine, 
Hath  now  put  forth  her  green  in  vain ; 
So  come  again,  and  come  again] 


THE  HOLY  HOUR 

THIS  hour  to  thee !  when  as  the  sun 
His  course  in  the  high  heaven  hath  run, 
And  dew  upon  the  earth  doth  fall, 
And  clouds  their  infant  light  recall, 

May  I  in  heart  and  spirit  be 

An  hour  with  thee  ! 

This  hour  be  thine  !  —  As  tender  sweet 
As  to  the  heart  returning  feet 
That  timely  come,  and  hands  that  bless, 
And  eyes  that  add  their  own  caress, 

So  tender  and  so  timely  be 

This  hour  to  me ! 


THE  FALLEN  LEAF 

Then,  make  it  thine,  and  as  its  light 
Doth  fade  and  vanish  in  the  night, 
Let  day's  forgetful  labors  be 
Vanished  and  lost  in  love  of  thee. 

For,  lo,  the  heat  and  glare  of  day, 
The  want,  the  woe,  have  passed  away ; 
And  malice  mean,  and  treachery, 
Have  left  me  now  this  hour  with  thee. 

All  else  forgot,  let  grief  and  pain, 
And  care,  and  misery,  and  disdain, 
And  falsehood  flee  away,  —  be  Thou 
My  only  care  and  comrade  now ! 

This  hour  to  thee ! 

And  if  I  weep, 

Let  Hope  her  watches  o'er  me  keep, 
And  build  a  rainbow  from  my  tears, 
That  'neath  this  sullen  cloud  of  years 
Shall  promise  brightly  I  may  be 
More  than  an  earthly  hour  with  thee ! 


THE  FALLEN  LEAF. 

PALE  leaf,  so  withered  and  so  wan ! 
What  bade  thee  fall  from  off  thy  bough  ? 
Did  other  leaves  then  linger  on, 
Staying  behind,  as  I  do,  now  ? 


LEGEND 

Did  they  thus  linger  on  their  tree, 
To  dance  upon  the  winds  in  vain, 
Seeking  an  April  smile  to  see 
Where  never  smile  might  be  again  ? 

They  fade  upon  forsaken  boughs ; 
They  flicker  in  the  frosty  air 
Like  yellow  light ;  —  and  the  wind  blows, 
And  the  cold  pierces  everywhere. 

Better  to  fall  at  once,  like  thee, 
All-withered  with  the  withering  year, 
Than,  lingering  into  scorn,  to  be 
A  laughter,  when  no  love  is  here. 


LEGEND. 

ONCE  as  Peter,  James,  and  John 
With  their  Master  journeyed  on, 
They  found  themselves  upon  a  road 
That  showed  no  sign  of  man's  abode. 

Then  as  upon  their  way  they  sped, 
The  dew  upon  his  forehead  laid 
Made  James  upturn  his  face,  and  say : 
"  How  peaceful  is  the  close  of  day !  " 

And  John,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  above 
"  It  is  ;  for  't  is  the  birth  of  love ; 


10  LEGEND 

The  heaven  is  gracious  with  the  sun, 
But  glorified  when  day  is  done." 

And  Peter  said :  "  The  dew  doth  f aU 
Upon  the  desert-ground  as  well 
As  on  the  fruitful  field ;  the  light 
Of  sun  and  star  through  day  and  night, 
Although  our  eyes  should  see  no  more, 
Would  shine  as  wondrous  as  before. 
For  loveliness  is  everywhere, 
If  we  have  eyes  to  see  it  there  !  " 

Then,  as  they  went  along  the  road 
That  like  a  winding  water  flowed, 
And  plodded  on  and  on,  there  fell 
Into  their  nostrils  an  ill  smell. 
And  presently  a  horse  was  seen 
That  dead  this  many  a  day  had  been. 
His  legs  were  stiff,  his  carcass  blown, 
His  hide  was  shrunken  from  the  bone. 
The  vultures  long  had  left  the  prey, 
And  flapped  upon  the  wind  away. 
And  maggots  now  their  liking  did, 
And  in  the  carcass  housed  and  hid. 

Said  James :  "  He  doth  the  air  pollute  ; 

We  must  avoid  the  scurvy  brute  ; 

See  how  his  legs  stick  out  awry ! 

That  staring  socket  was  an  eye." 
"  Behold  the  sum  of  life,"  said  John, 
"  And  all  the  same  in  horse  or  man  ; 

—  How  his  bones  are  gnawed  and  bare !  " 


THE   WEARY  KING  11 

And,  "  Paugh !  "  cried  Peter,  "  all  that 's  fair 
Loses  itself  in  this  !  see,  how 
His  lips  are  stript  as  if  to  show 
The  inner  vileness !  " 

Thus  the  three 

Turned  themselves  off ;  but  Jesus  brooked 
To  stand  awhile,  and  as  he  looked 
Upon  the  carrion  thing  he  said  : 
"  Peter,  although  the  brute  is  dead, 
Yet,  see  !  how  very  pure  and  white 
His  teeth  are  !  "  — 

"  Lord  !  they  are  most  bright !  " 
Then  Jesus  smiled  ;  —  and  all  began 
To  plod  upon  their  way  again. 


THE  WEARY  KING. 

THERE  was  a  King  in  days  of  old, 
Whose  heart  in  his  great  breast  grew  cold ; 
It  could  no  longer  weep  or  pray ; 
The  King  was  weary  of  the  day. 

Upon  his  city  by  the  sea 

Sleep  and  the  night  all  quietly 

Had  stolen  down,  when  the  moon's  glow 

Fell  on  the  King's  face,  full  of  woe  ; 

For  from  his  noisy  palace  he 

Stept  forth ;  the  golden  revelry 

In  distance  slumbering,  as  he  passed 


12  THE     WEARY  KINO 

The  gates,  and  gardens  dim  and  vast, 
And  mounting  up  the  stony  way 
Gained  the  green  height.     His  city  lay 
Behind  him  now,  —  before,  the  dawn 
Glimmered  and  grayed :  the  king  passed  on. 

A  herdsman  'neath  a  mossy  mound 

Slept  upon  the  sunny  ground. 

His  cloak  and  crook  beside  -him  lay  ; 

The  King  came  by,  all  sad  and  gray. 

He  looked ;  —  and,  lo,  a  rosy  smile 

Came  on  the  herdsman's  face,  the  while 

The  great  King  gazed,  and  thought,  how  deep 

His  happiness  who  smiles  in  sleep  ! 

Long  he  mused.     Then,  at  the  last 
He  rose,  and  quietly  he  cast 
His  mantle  from  him,  and  his  crown, 
And  laid  them  by  the  sleeper  down. 
His  weary  sceptre  too,  and  all 
That  kingly  was,  he  did  let  fall ; 
And  from  the  shepherd's  side  he  took 
The  cloak,  the  wallet,  and  the  crook. 
And  forth  he  fared  —  a  shepherd,  he  ! 
Whose  heart  within  his  breast  was  free ; 
For  as  he  wandered  or  was  still, 
Beneath  the  rock,  or  by  the  rill, 
And  as  he  kept  and  called  his  sheep, 
His  kingly  cares  were  laid  to  sleep. 
His  crook  upon  his  aged  knee, 
He  smiled  in  sunshine  dreamily ; 
And  all  day  long  his  quiet  face 
Was  like  an  evening  in  the  place. 


THE  APPLE-TREE  13 

Thus,  as  all  blissfully  he  went, 
His  old  heart  grew  innocent ; 
And  his  high  face  seemed  to  know, 
Like  clouds  that  into  evening  blow, 
A  long  and  lovely  afterglow. 


THE  APPLE-TREE. 

AN  apple-tree,  that  grew  beside  a  road, 
Bore  on  a  prosperous  autumn  such  a  load, 
That  an  untender  hand  or  blow  would  break 
The  laden  boughs :  "  If  with  my  fruit  I  make 
A  recompense  to  those  who  on  their  way 
Trudge  from  the  sun-up  to  the  set  of  day, 
I  shall  be  glad  :  —  although  each  bough  I  bear 
Should  broken  be." 

In  a  few  days  the  tree 
Was  stript  of  all  its  burden,  and  the  air 
And  sun  pierced  where  they  would  ;  passers  might 

see 

Only  a  few  half  leafless  branches  left : 
Of  fruit  and  leaf  alike  it  was  bereft. 
And  as  I  passed  beneath  I  heard  it  speak, 
A  fluttering  wind  of  words  and  accents  weak. 

"  Alas !  alas !  I  did  not,  could  not  guess 
There  was  so  keen  an  edge  to  the  distress 
That  I  must  now  endure :  no  leaves  I  bear, 
But  barrenness,  no  fruit  now  but  despair. 


14       THE   CHILD  AND   THE   TWILIGHT 

Had  I  but  known  how  bitter  't  is  to  be 
Thus  destitute  and  naked,  not  in  me 
Would  travelers  have  found  delight ;  —  alas  ! 
I  did  not  dream  that  there  was  wretchedness 
That  was  not  to  be  borne ;  but  now  I  see 
And  know  and  feel  myself  that  there  may  be." 

Next  May  I  chanced  that  road ;  —  by  grief  not 

schooled, 

Flattered  by  winds,  or  by  the  sunlight  fooled, 
The  tree  had  blossomed.  —  Thought  I :  Trees,  like 

men, 

When  they  are  robbed  of  gladness,  scoff  and  swear 
They  will  not  err  in  doing  good  again ; 
But  gladness  kisses  them  —  and  then  they  err ! 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  TWILIGHT. 

I  WALKED  into  a  little  wood, 

And  there  upon  my  way, 
I  met  a  little,  little  man, 

A  little  man  in  gray. 

I  spoke  to  him :  "  Good  day !  good  day !  " 

He  would  not  answer  me ; 
He  wore  a  cloak  of  silver  braid, 

As  gray  as  gray  could  be. 

And  on  the  ground  his  cloak  he  spread, 
He  hung  it  on  the  Tree ; 


NIGHTFALL   IN   WINTER  15 

And  here  and  there,  till  all  the  air 
Was  gray  as  gray  could  be. 

"  Where  is  the  path  in  this  dark  wood? 

I  cannot  find  my  way  !  " 
Never  a  word  said  the  little  man, 

The  little  man  in  gray. 

"  A  light,  green  wood  !  lend  me  a  light, 

That  I  may  look  and  see !  " 
So  quickly  then  a  man  in  green 

Stept  from  behind  a  tree. 

A  lantern  in  his  hand  he  had, 

And  not  a  word  said  he  ; 
But  he  ran  before  to  the  green  woods  door, 

And  opened  it  wide  for  me. 

Oh,  little  man,  whoever  you  be 

That  wore  the  mantle  gray  — 
The  man  in  green  has  come  to  me, 

And  I  'm  out  of  your  wood  and  away ! 


NIGHTFALL  IN  WINTER. 

COLD  is  the  air, 
The  woods  are  bare 
And  brown  ;  the  herd 
Stand  in  the  yard. 


16  NIGHTFALL  IN   WINTER 

The  frost  doth  fall ; 
And  round  the  hill 
The  hares  move  slow  ; 
The  homeward  crow, 
Alone  and  high, 
Crosses  the  sky 
All  silently. 

The  quick  streams  freeze ; 
The  moving  trees 
Are  still ;  for  now 
No  breeze  will  blow  : 
The  wind  has  gone 
With  the  day,  down, 
And  clouds  are  come 
Bearing  the  gloom. 
The  yellow  grass 
In  the  clear  glass 
Of  the  bright  pool 
Grows  soft  and  dull. 
The  water's  eye 
That  held  the  sky 
Now  glazes  quite ; 
And  now  the  light 
On  the  cold  hiU 
Fadeth,  until 
The  giant  mass 
Doth  seem  to  pass 
From  near  to  far  ; 
The  clouds  obscure 
The  sky  with  gloom : 
The  night  is  come. 


"  WHO  IS  SHE  THAT  YOU  LOVE?"   17 


"WHO  IS  SHE  THAT  YOU  LOVE?" 

WHO  is  she  that  you  love  ? 

Oh,  I  adore  her ! 
How  do  you  worship  her  ? 

I  bow  before  her. 
What  is  she  that  you  love  ? 

Her  ways  are  honor. 
Who  worships  her  ? 

Whoever  looks  upon  her. 
And  is  she  fair,  thy  love  ? 

As  skies  a-clearing. 
And  stately  is  she  ? 

As  the  stars  appearing. 
And  is  she  true,  thy  love  ? 

There  is  none  truer. 
And  is  she  good,  thy  love  ? 

Go  thou  and  view  her ! 
And  did  she  tell  her  love  ? 

She  did  dissemble. 
How  knew  you  that  she  loved  ? 

I  saw  her  tremble. 
And  when  she  trembled,  then  ? 

I  knelt  beside  her. 
And  then  ? 

Why,    then,  —  why    then,   sweet   joy 

betide  her ! 


THE  LITTLE  EASTERN  PRINCESS. 

A  LITTLE  Lady  in  a  story  old, 

Fragrant  with  all  the  East  from  Samarcand 

To  Bagdad  or  bright  Fez,  when  she  was  told 

She  must  not  bathe  in  the  moonlight,  "  By  this 

hand," 

She  cried,  "  I  will !  "  —  Nor  could  a  princess  swear 
By  aught  that  under  heaven  was  more  fair, 
Or  sweeter  kisses  to  her  lover  blew. 
And  this  I  think  the  little  Lady  knew. 

I  have  forgotten  now  what  blind  or  hid 

Disaster  was  to  follow  if  she  did 

According  to  her  oath ;  —  the  point,  however, 

Was,  if  she  bathed  in  any  tranquil  river, 

She  'd  see  what  the  Vizier  himself  had  been 

At  earnest  pains  should  not  by  her  be  seen, 

Namely,  her  own  sweet  face ;  for  from  that  one 

Brief  moment's  vision  —  Destiny  had  spun 

The  threads  so !  —  all  things  grew ;  and  in  the  tale 

Of  destined  harm  there  was  a  nightingale, 

A  jealous  father,  hareems,  and  a  Fate 

Ripening  to  fall,  a  soft  and  silken  hate, 

Rings  of  dark  power,  a  latticed  window  high, 

Whence  roses  rained,  a  lover,  and  a  spy, 

And  sweets  ungirdled  in  the  secret  night, 

A  blare  of  trumpets  and  a  sudden  flight ; 


THE  LITTLE  EASTERN  PRINCESS        19 

Then  bloody  payment;  —  and  sad  eyes  like  stars ; 
And  half  a  hundred  whirling  scimitars, 
With  more  —  but  as  I  say,  I  have  forgot 
What  followed,  but  what  made  it  follow,  not. 

For  that  same  night  the  Princess'  little  feet, 
Her  slippers  in  her  naughty  hand,  all  fleet, 
Down  the  cool  marble  stairs,  and  o'er  the  lawn, 
And  through  an  ivory  gate,  were  slipped  and  gone. 
Thence  'neath  green  groves  she  walked,  moon  shad 
owed  all, 

Till  scarcely  now  she  heard  the  fountain's  fall 
In  the  courtyard  ;  —  and,  behold,  the  River's  face, 
Dreamy  and  glittering !  —  a  broad,  bright  space, 
Of  balmy  verge.     The  dark,  cool  waters  drew 
About  an  Isle,  where  purple  flag-flowers  grew ; 
Each  purple  flag-flower  bowing  on  its  stem, 
Whose  purple  images  bowed  back  at  them. 
High  in  the  air  soared  pomegranate  and  palm  ; 
And  all  was  ripeness  and  repose  and  calm. 
The  princess  gazed  in  soft,  delicious  mood, 
Until  the  coolness  of  the  water  wooed 
Her  feet  to  venture  daintily,  —  the  sin 
Was  pleasant  and  invited  deeper  in. 
And  being  deeper  gone,  she  perceived,  for 
The  first  time  in  her  life,  that  rivers  bore 
Bright  stars  ;  and  were  sky-deep,  —  a  sudden  terror 
Heaved  in  her  bosom  !  —  Had  the  dark,  blue  mirror 
Of  waters  rippled  not,  she,  frankly,  even 
Had  feared  to  topple  and  fall  into  heaven ! 
But  seeing  half  a  hundred  stars  below 
Pass  into  streams  of  light,  and  flash,  and  flow 


20         THE  LITTLE  EASTERN  PRINCESS 

On  the  dark  wave,  she  plucked  up  heart ;  and  soon 

The  fire-besprinkled  motion  calmed,  the  moon 

Burnished  the  undulant  and  easy  wave, 

That  ever  smoother  grew ;  —  still  not  quite  brave,  — 

Until  she  saw  the  heaven,  the  stars,  and  all 

The  pomegranates,  and  palm  majestical ; 

And,  presently,  discerned  the  pebbly  shelf 

And  bed  of  bottom  sand  ;  —  when,  "Oh,"  she  saw 

herself ! 

Her  face  —  unknown  to  her !  —  all  fair,  and  full. 
Out  leaped  the  thought !     "  By  Eblis !  —  beauti 
ful!— 

Allah  has  given  me  beauty ;  I  must  make 
A  proper  use  of  it  for  Allah's  sake. 
Ah,  what  a  Loveliness  I  am !  "  —  't  was  hence, 
And  from  that  hour  she  lost  all  innocence 
Of  her   own  power,  —  whereon  she   bathed,  and 

dashed 
Hither  and  thither,  swam,  and  played  and  plashed. 

She  had  great  joy,  indeed !     And  so,  as  one 
Who  has  the  whole  of  a  harsh  duty  done, 
That  is  to  say,  with  conscience  quite  at  rest, 
Head-beneath-wing,  and  sleeping  in  her  breast, 
Her  homeward  way  she  now  began  to  measure, 
Rich  in  deceit  and  full  of  stolen  pleasure ; 
Until  she  gained  her  palace,  when  the  Tale 

Further  relateth  that  a  nightingale 

But  that 's  nor  here,  nor  there  !  — 

Only,  when  I 
Behold  the  young  Moon  bathing  in  the  sky, 


THE  LITTLE  EASTERN  PRINCESS        21 

A  naked  splendor,  —  then  I  seem  to  be 
Transported  to  that  Tale :  —  voluptuously 
The  Lady  walketh  in  her  garden  fair, 
'Neath  citron  groves,  and  orange,  and  the  air 
Is  perfumed  with  a  languor,  as  she  goes, 
Swaying  from  side  to  side ;  —  the  river  flows 
About  her,  and  she  sees  her  Image  bright, 
Soft-mirrored  in  the  stream,  and  the  warm  depth  of 

night, 
With  all  the  pleasures  of  her  loveliness  — 

There  is  a  languor  comes  with  the  excess 

Of  the  moon's  soft  light ;  —  and  sometimes  even  a 

saint, 
Wand'ring  'mid  Eastern  fables,  will  grow  faint. 


THE  COMFORT  OF  THE  GRASS. 

MADISON  SQUARE,  NEW  YORK,  1890. 

I. 

THE  night  hath  passed  upon  me  wearily, 
A  heavy  night  of  darkness,  and  is  gone ; 
Oh,  let  me  raise  my  eyes  to  heaven  and  see 
The  rosy  deep  of  full  refreshing  dawn. 

For  grief  hath  been  my  bed-fellow,  and  slept 

No  hour  of  these  so  many :  —  I  have  wept, 

Till  not  alone  my  eyes  are  weary  weeping, 

But  strong  convulsion  of  unwilling  grief 

Hath  numbed  the  very  nerves  of  pain  ;  I  feel 

A  languor  in  my  veins,  as  if  my  blood 

Had  drunk  of  slumber  and  my  grief  were  sleeping, 

Never  to  wake  again. 

For  now  my  mood 

Is  soft  as  summer  air,  —  ah,  if  it  would 
But  linger  to  the  noon,  I  murmur  low, 
This  sweet  and  temperate  interval  of  calm, 
So  blessed  and  so  delicious  with  the  balm 
And  softness  of  late  vanished  tears !     I  know 
Not  now  if  I  am  he,  who  hung  in  grief, 
And  withered  in  despair  —  as  some  pale  leaf 
Looks  from  below  upon  its  former  bough, 
Where  all  night  long  it  clung,  but  clings  not  now. 


THE   COMFORT  OF  THE  GRASS          23 


II. 

Here  are  no  green  hillsides,  no  path,  to  follow, 
No  flock  of  sheep  that  out  of  some  deep  hollow 
Come  bleating  through  the  dew ;  no  river  bright 
That  girds  a  mountain  with  far-flashing  light. 
But  the  great  city  with  its  mortal  stir, 
And  dull,  continuous  thunder  ;  —  yet  the  air 
Is  filled  with  glamour  of  the  misty  morn, 
And  noises  sweet,  matutinal,  are  borne 
Comminglingly  from  far ;  young  light  doth  rest 
Yellow  and  winter-warm  on  grass  and  tree ; 
And  the  wide  Square  is  still  at  this  hour  free 
Of  all  its  loiterers  ;  soft  is  the  sky, 
Gentle  the  air !  —  Women  and  men  pass  by, 
Hastiug  to  their  day  labor.  —  Lo,  the  grass 
Is  quiet  to  the  eye  and  ever  new, 
And  sparkles  like  a  meadow  deep  in  dew. 

in. 

Green  countenance  of  earth,  forever  fair ! 

Thou  lovely  smile  of  the  maternal  earth, 

When  lying  in  the  soft  embrace  of  air 

She  feeleth  the  young  Spring  abound  in  her, 

And  laugheth  in  her  bliss,  and  looketh  forth 

Amongst   the    clouds  !  —  Bright    crowner   of    the 

height, 

And  dweller  by  the  sea,  strong  Grass,  where'er 
Thou  comest,  earth  is  sweet,  as  she  is  here, 
Made  so  by  thee.     Thou  veil  of  happy  light ! 
Soft,  sweet  interposition  'twixt  the  dead 
And  those  who  call  themselves  the  quick !  —  oh, 

might 


24  THE   COMFORT  OF  THE   GRASS 

The  weary  living,  sick  of  life,  be  laid 

Beneath  thy  dewiness,  thy  mist  of  green, 

So  sparkling  and  so  pure  and  so  serene  ! 

Then  might'st  thou  the  lost  good  of  Life  restore  ; 

For  never  touch  of  the  Beloved  could  be 

More  gentle,  more  assuaging,  softer  more, 

Or  fraught  with  deeper  bliss,  than  thine  to  me. 

To  all  thou  bringest  Peace,  but  to  such  eyes 

As  weary  are,  thy  touch  is  paradise  ; 

And  to  such  hearts  as  restlessly,  forever 

Seek  after  Peace  —  in  vain,  and  find  her  never !  — 

Nor  yet  from  that  perturbed  seeking  cease, 

Thou  greenest  light,  thou  art  their  whole  of  Peace. 


LOSS. 


I  WANDERED  through  the  orchard  and  the  wood, 
And  gathered  flowers  and  blossoms,  frail  and  fair, 
Too-soon  departing  children  of  an  hour 
When  April  marries  with  a  May-time  mood. 
Anemones  that  tremble  in  still  air  ; 
And  violets  that  Evening  loves  to  brood 
Dewily  over ;  hyacinths  as  fair 
As  heaven  is ;  —  and  those  pale  flowers  the  rude 
And  surly  winds  will  never  leave  for  May ; 
With  many  another  brightness,  dear  to  me, 
And  dwelled  upon,  because  like  this  bright  day, 
Like  all  that 's  born  of  earth,  and  most  may  be 
Stainless  and  pure,  yet  quickly  fade  away, 
They  feed  one  all-engrossing  memory. 

n. 

I  dreamed  I  came  to  my  old  nurse  again, 

And  fell  upon  her  neck,  and  wept  my  fill ; 

For  I  had  wandered  far,  bearing  a  pain 

Which  not  all  earth-wide  wanderings  may  still : 

The  weight  of  absence  that 's  endured  in  vain ; 

"  Dear  nurse,"  I  cried,  and,  sobbing,  bowed  my  head, 

"  She  will  not  ever,  ever  come  again  !  " 

"  My  bairn,  what  gars  ye  greet  sae !    Wha  is  dead  ? 

Ye  're  in  a  waefu'  dream ; "  —  with  that  she  led 


26  LOSS 

Me  to  the  very  chamber  that  I  feared  ; 
But  at  the  instant  as  the  door  we  neared, 
My  heart  within  me  gave  a  cry,  sleep  fled , 
And  I  awaked,  and  wept  —  whatever  sears 
And  wastes  a  life  away;   for,  oh,  they  were  not 
tears! 

m. 

I  would  that  I  could  do  such  things  for  you 

As  women  gently  use  to  those  they  love ; 

I  would  my  longing  spirit  like  a  dew 

Could  fall  upon  you  and  your  cares  remove. 

Martha  and  Mary  thus  their  Lord  did  woo  ; 

Nor  should  my  cares  be  such  thou  couldst  reprove ; 

But,  like  a  sleep,  thy  weariness  pursue 

And  drop  in  benediction  from  above. 

Alas !  the  dove  of  my  solicitude 

Faints  from  her  flight  and  must  return  to  me ; 

This  earth  to  her  a  weary  solitude, 

A  waste  of  waters  without  hope  of  thee. 

But  dawn  must  rise  on  darkness  ;  —  to  the  flood 

Of  Time,  how  deep  soe'er,  an  end  shall  be. 

IV. 

I  heard  at  dewy  morn  two  upland  plover 
Grieving  the  air,  a  tremulous,  wild  crying  ; 
And  watched  them  as  all  eagerly  they  hover 
With  quivering  wings,  and  each  to  each  replying. 
It  was  their  nest  was  robbed,  and  they  were  flying 
Hither  and  thither  sadly,  to  recover 
What  was  forever  lost ;  —  and  with  them  vying 
How  oft  my  thoughts,  as  tender  as  a  lover, 
Have  wandered  round  that  lonely  house  and  place ; 


LOSS  27 

And  wild  with  grief  have  they  not  wasted  there 
The  day  and  night  in  looking  for  one  face, 
And  found  it  not !  —  while  I  sat  weary  here, 
And  dared  not  tell  them  that  their  search  must  be 
Into  the  shadow  of  Eternity. 

v. 

I  had  a  friend,  but  she  is  gone  from  me  ; 

I  had  a  heart,  but  find  it  changed  now  ; 

I  had  sweet  thoughts,  they  could  not  sweeter  be, 

But  looking  on  them  since,  they  are  not  so. 

A  home  was  mine  where  I  my  heart  could  lay ; 

It  smiled  upon  me  like  a  mother's  face  ; 

But  men  have  come  and  chased  that  smile  away, 

And  were  I  there  I  should  not  know  the  place. 

So  sweetest  shadows  change.  —  Yet  there  's  a  thing 

Fairer  than  shadows  are ;  and  as  the  Spring 

To  this  cold  world  comes  sweetly,  so  to  me 

The  love  which  constant  is  unto  my  friend ; 

It  is  a  May  of  heart,  and  heavenly, 

And  blossoms  into  heaven  without  end. 

VI. 

As  nigh  a  little  group  of  flowers  I  knelt, 

That  closely  grew  and  clustered  all  so  thickly, 

They  shed  a  single  shadow  down,  I  felt 

A  change  in  them,  I  saw  them  alter  quickly : 

They  lost   their   hue,  and   from  them  fled   their 

shadow ! 

And  yet,  't  was  but  the  sun  behind  a  cloud, 
That  wrought  such  sadness  over  all  the  meadow  ; 
And  soon  again  he  would  his  face  unshroud. 


28  LOSS 

—  The  hue  and  odor  from  my  thoughts  is  gone 
Since  thou  art  vanished,  and  they  wither  now, 
And  want  their  fragrant  life,  and  are  all  wan, 
And  wish  with  thee  they  might  transplanted  blow. 
But  if   Death  be  such  cloud,  —  no   more  !  —  oh, 

then, 
Let  them  blow  here,  hereafter  blow  again. 


THE  HIDDEN  RIVER. 

SOMETIMES  in  a  great  wind  a  lull  occurs, 

And  in  the  lull  the  voice  of  the  dark  firs, 

And  of  the  other  trees  whose  limbs  are  bare, 

Is  scarcely  heard ;  yet,  listen,  and  the  air 

Fills  with  a  distant  sound,  distant  and  dull 

And  hoarse,  and  as  the  night  grows  yet  more  still, 

It  gathers  volume  :  —  from  behind  the  hill, 

A  voice,  as  if  deep  Nature  and  the  Night 

Conspired  in  murmurs  'gainst  the  kingly  light. 

Fed  with  the  thaw  and  gush  of  mountain  snow, 
Behind  yon  hill  a  hundred  rivers  flow 
In  one  ;  swollen  those  waters ;  swift  their  flight ; 
And  their  deep  roll  it  is,  as  through  the  night 
They  take  their  mighty  course.     I  know  not  how, 
But  as  those  moon-lit,  snow-fed  currents  flow 
Into  one  power,  it  seems  no  more  to  be 
A  sound  of  rivers  that  confusedly 
Murmur  from  many  mouths,  and  by  their  verge 
And  bank,   pine  -  shadowed,  sweep  with  tranquil 
surge. 

—  Mournful,  the  murmur  of  the  unseen  wave 
Is  like  a  spirit,  risen  from  the  grave, 
And  crying  to  the  heart :  How  fleet  thy  years 
The  past  how  deeply  lost !     Beyond  all  tears 


30  THE  HIDDEN  RIVER 

Buried  in  time,  whose  waves  bear  thee  away 

In  their  swift  motion ;  and  thou  bid'st  them  stay 

In   vain !   darkly   they   rush  !  —  fleet,   fleet !  —  in 

vain ! 

Their  errand  is  to  the  eternal  main, 
Of  which  thou  art  a  breath. 

Not  always  thus 

The  voice  of  gathered,  multitudinous, 
Far-rushing  waters  !     Rather  like  delight 
And  mystery  in  the  soft,  summer  night ; 
The  touch  of  music  that  is  now  no  more ;  — 
Like  words  soft-uttered  from  that  other  shore, 
While  we  on  this  stand  listening  silently ; 
Dark  shadow  flows  between  ;  no  form  may  be 
Discerned ;    and   all   is   still.     "  Where  art   thou 

now?" 
We  cry,  "  Is  Death  eternal  ?     Where  art  thou  ?  " 

And  from  that  unseen  shore,  a  spirit  saith, 
"  Be  not  beguiled !  behold,  there  is  no  death : 
For  the  dead  live  and  are." 

Far,  far  away, 

The  river  rolls  its  waters  to  the  day, 
And  to  the  ocean.     From  the  dawn  a  breeze 
Floats  down,  and  mingles  with  the  leafless  trees, 
Motion  and  sound  ;  and  the  same  spirit  stirs 
And  murmurs  in  the  darkness  of  the  firs. 


THE  MOMENT. 

'Tis  autumn  now  ;  —  the  wood  upon  the  hill 
Is  a  rich  yellow  in  the  soft  blue  sky  ; 
The  corn-fields  glisten,  the  warm  air  is  still ; 
And  the  few  clouds  are  feathery  and  high. 
Far  off  a  little  breeze  comes  lingeringly 
Along  the  woods-edge  and  spills  lightly  down 
Leaf  after  leaf  :  they  fall  innumerably ; 
And  like  some  golden  and  ripe  fruit  they  lie 
On  the  green  grass,  and  fill  the  furrow  brown. 
How  silent  't  is !  —  'T  is  the  serenest  air, 
The  calmest  day  !  —  The  current  of  the  year 
Flows  scarcely  now ;  Nature  herself  bereaves 
Gently  of  life  ;  from  under  fallen  leaves 
Peers  the  young  grass.  — 

And  my  deep  heart  within, 
Like  a  calm  lake  reflects  the  golden  scene 
Distinct  in  all  its  glory,  e'en  to  where 
The  distant  hills  loom  up  in  the  warm  air, 
Melting  in  silvery  haze. 

How  sweet,  how  good 
It  is  to  be  reborn  into  this  mood 
Of  natural  ending  :  to  be  satisfied 
With  the  world's  age,  and  ebb  of  its  great  tide. 


32  THE  MOMENT 

Too  often  do  we  fall  from  such  content ; 
Estranged  from  our  own  nature,  wryed  and  bent, 
As  saplings  in  the  forest  by  the  snow, 
Heavily  fallen,  and  which  never  grow 
Erect  again  ;  —  Life  falls  on  us  e'en  so ! 
And  wrenched  at  heart  too  rudely,  we  become 
Like  those  whose  spirits,  feeding  on  the  gloom 
And  bitterness  of  things,  see  naught  to  please 
Where  others  find  a  blessedness  or  ease ; 
Whom  nothing  satisfies :  nor  love,  nor  mirth ; 
Not  clouds,  and  not  the  sun's  bright  looking  forth ; 
Not  Life  !  —  forever  sliding  into  change ; 
Not  death !  —  for  death 's  unnatural  and  strange. 
Not  with  the  stillness,  and  not  with  the  stream 
Are  such  content :  —  they  feed  upon  a  Dream, 
And  waking  from  it  hunger  ceaselessly ; 
Their  heaven  a  desire,  eternity 
Of  vain  desire ! 

So  may  it  never  be 

Unto  my  soul  and  blood  !  —  The  present  hour, 
The  winds  that  blow,  the  thoughts  that  rise,  the 

flower 

That  blossoms,  Love  now  warm  and  good, 
This  hour  of  the  world's  time,  and  nature's  mood, 
These  be  my  strength,  my  stay ! 

Ah,  blue  and  fair 

Is  yonder  heaven,  mild  and  sweet  the  air. 
And  tenderly  the  spirit  dies  away 
In  life  from  earth,  in  light  from  the  blue  day. 
Nor  was  she  holier  that  other  earth, 


THE  MOMENT  33 

Our  mother,  bringing  all  things  to  their  birth, 
Than  this  sweet  failing  hour,  the  calm,  the  rest, 
And  earth  retaking  all  things  to  her  breast. 

For  holy  though  the  influx,  the  green  leaf ! 
The  full  tide  !  yet,  holy  the  great  relief  ! 
The  vast  security,  blissful  and  strange, 
The  mighty  throe,  the  universal  change ; 
Holy  the  swift  departure  !  — 

Even  as  now 

The  year  departs,  so  Man,  so  all  things  flow 
Into  the  gulf  of  change,  and  calmly  cease 
Upon  the  bosom  of  eternal  Peace. 


FROM  A  CITY  WINDOW. 

I  HEAR  the  feet 

Below 

In  the  dark  street ; 

They  hurry  and  shuffle  by, 

And  go,  on  errands  bitter  or  sweet, 

Whither  I  cannot  know. 

A  bird  troubles  the  night 
From  the  green  plane  — 
And  in  my  breast  again 
Vague  memories  of  delight 
Arise  from  the  spirit's  night, 
And  pass  into  it  again. 

And  the  hurrying,  restless  feet 

Below, 

On  errands  I  cannot  know, 

Like  a  great  tide  ebb  and  flow. 


BENEDICTION. 

SLEEP,  darling,  sleep ! 
Some  eyes  in  slumber  weep ; 
I  pray,  not  thine  ! 
Thy  slumbers  be  more  deep 
Than  mine ! 


AT  CHILD'S  PLAY  IN   THE    WOODS         35 

Smile,  then,  thrice  dear  ! 
For  I  shall  have  no  fear, 
If  thy  sleep  smile  : 
Heaven  then  to  earth  draws  near 
Awhile. 

Slumber  and  rest ! 
If  Love  can  bless,  oh  blessed 
Thy  slumbers  be ! 
And  lead  thee,  dear,  at  last, 
Tome. 


AT  CHILD'S  PLAY  IN  THE  WOODS. 

WE  sought  a  forest,  'neath  whose  pleasant  shade, 

We  who  are  older,  and  grown  up,  and  wiser 

Than  any  mortal  ever  was  !  —  we  played 

That  we  were  children  playing ;  —  so  much  nicer 

Than  now  we  are  !     You  were  an  Indian  maid, 

My  daughter,  whom  I  loved  —  in  moderation  ! 

And  you  were  gay,  but  I  was  dark  and  dread, 

And  wrapt  in  fur  and  sombre  meditation. 

You  built  a  fire  of  twigs ;  —  how  grave  I  looked, 

Smoking  a  green  bough !  —  you  fetched  dew,  for 

water, 

And  smiled  at  me,  so  sweetly  !  —  while  I  smoked  ; 
And  when  you  smiled,  I  smiled  and  said :  "  My 

daughter, 

Your  sweet  face  is  most  dear  to  me,"  —  and  then, 
You  blew  your  fire,  I  puffed  my  pipe  again. 


36  AN  APRIL  FLOWER 


AN  APRIL  FLOWER. 

How  pale  the  shadows  of  the  leafless  trees  ! 
A  branched,  pale,  blue  light  on  the  deep  snow, 
That  wavers  gently,  as  the  winter  breeze 
Sways  the  light  boughs  above  it  to  and  fro. 

"Tis  true,  the  buds  are  yet  unswelled  with  Spring, 
In  whose  fresh  shadows,  soon,  the  birds  will  sing ; 
Those  birds,  too  true,  are  flown  long  time  away ; 
And  the  cold  woods  and  meadows  are  all  gray. 
There  seems  in  truth,  no  hope  ;  —  the  brooks  run  by 
And  glitter  coldly  to  a  cold,  blue  sky. 

Yet  I  assure  myself,  with  softest  words, 
The  forests  will  unfold  their  green  ;  the  birds 
Will   from  the  South  return :    that  these  things, 

though 

They  seem  to  be  a  legend,  are  not  so ! 
And  thus  I  wait,  patiently  as  I  can, 
A  winter-weary,  spring-desiring  man, 
Breathing  expectancy.  — 

Hard  lot !  —  but,  oh, 
How  soon  this  age  and  heaviness  of  snow 
Will  dance  like  Youth  itself  upon  the  hills, 
Hashing  and  falling  down  the  noisy  rills, 
When  from  the  sun's  warm  bosom  the  young  Spring 
Steps  smilingly,  and  shakes  her  glittering 
And  wreathed  locks,  that  myriad  leaves  may  dress 
With  modest  green  her  warm,  bright  nakedness ! 


DESIRE  37 

Far  harder  lot  it  is  to  wait  till  Love 

Return  from  whence  she  's  gone ;  —  to  know  the 

dove 

Will  be  here,  ere  she  may  —  the  swallows  even ! 
It  was  but  yesterday  when  full  of  heaven, 
—  Of  thoughts  of  love,  I  mean,  —  I  found  a  place 
Where  was  a  new-born  flower ;  I  bent  my  face 
Down  to  it,  and  I  swear  to  you,  the  thing 
Had  a  warm  breath,  as  't  were  a  tiny  Spring  ; 
And  when  I  lay  beside  it  on  the  grass, 
And  kissed  where  was  its  breath,  it  came  to  pass 
I  seemed  to  be  beside  her,  far  removed  ! 
And  kissed  with  closed  eyes  my  one-beloved ! 


DESIRE. 

Now  the  Spring,  like  a  green  flood, 
Flows  again  o'er  field  and  wood, 
O'er  plain  and  forest,  and  the  sea, 
Wilt  thou  not,  then,  joyously, 
My  beloved,  come  to  me  ? 

The  wild  swan  seeks  her  watery  nest ; 
The  happy  clouds  blow  from  the  west ; 
The  sweet  rain  falls,  and  slumbrously 
Earth  lies  in  calm  of  cloud  and  sea, 
And  wilt  thou,  too,  not  come  to  me, 
To  rest  and  slumber  joyously ! 


LIKENESSES. 

I  LOVE  you,  dear,  and  since  you  ask, 

And  put  me  to  the  happy  task 

Of  searching  out  similitudes,  to  say 

Like  this  or  that,  —  as  if  it  were  a  "  play," 

That  children  played,  —  why,  let 's  be  children,  too, 

Playing  at  this  :  —  And  so  I  '11  say  to  you, 

I  love  you  like  the  day,  for  day  is  bright,. 

And  heaven  is  in  the  day,  and  't  is  all  light, 

And  in  the  light  we  live !  —  "  Oh,  but,"  you  cry, 

"  My  likenesses  must  be  less  large,  less  high  ! 

The  game  's  too  loose  if  I  throw  down  a  day, 

Or  night,  and  bid  that  count!  "     Why,  then,  I'll 

say, 

Like  the  fresh  brooks  that  in  the  forest  flow, 
Or  vernal  breezes  that  above  them  blow ; 
Or  like  perchance  the  quick,  light-leaping  fawn, 
Or  the  young  flowers  o'er  which  her  feet  have  gone  ; 
Or  like  —  of  all  things,  like  the  early  Spring, 
When  she  puts  laughter  into  everything, 
And  to  glad  hearts  the  great  world  seems  to  be 
Shook  with  a  kind  of  leafy  gayety. 
For,  truth!  I  love  you  like  all  things  that  are 
Of  the  world's  spirit  born,  in  earth  or  air 
Whatever  's  lovely,  fleetest  cloud,  or  foam, 
Or  flower,  or  spring  of  flowers,  or  thought  of  home, 


LIKENESSES  39 

Or  welcome  home,  or  laughter,  or  delight, 

Or  dawn,  or  liberty,  or  day,  or  night ! 

Like  sleep  long  absent !  like  —  oh,  like  the  hand 

Of  friendship  after  calumny  ! 

Command 

You  my  thoughts  further  ?  —  they  shall  find 
New  likenesses  as  easy  as  the  wind 
A  space  for  its  wide  marches,  for  I  love 
Thee  and  this  world !     But,  see  !  —  as  children  sail 
The  tiniest  shells  upon  some  river,  fill 
Their  fancied  sails  with  breath,  and  all  the  while 
Speak  of  their  "ventures,"  and  without  a  smile 
Direct  this  barque  to  Cadiz,  and  that  one 
To  some  rich  Indian  port,  —  so  have  we  done 
With  this  most  foolish  game ! 

And  even  as  children  run 

Beside  their  current,  and  are  caught  and  whirled 
Down  the  swift  stream,  that  Spirit  of  the  World, 
Love,  with  whom  now  I  fondly  thought  to  play 
In  words,  has  caught  and  whirled  my  heart  away 
To  dangerous  depths  !  —  For  there  's  no  thought 

may  give 

The  sense  of  how  much  in  our  love  we  live, 
How  much  I  live  in  thine,  or  with  what  soul 
I  cherish  thee  ! 

"  Ah,  but  I  must  control 
My  love,  and  play  the  game  out !  " 

Know,  then,  I 

Love  you  as  men  may  love  a  victory 
Which  they  have  nobly  won ;  of  which  they  're  gay, 
And  proud  most  happily !  —  and,  in  such  mood  and 

way, 


40  LIKENESSES 

Like  glory  and  like  music  and  like  war 

I  love  you,  —  oh,  like  all  of  these,  and  more 

Than  life  I  love  thee,  and  with  such  a  fire 

As  breathes  the  south-wind  when  she  brings  desire 

To  all  the  world ! 

Into  what  foolishness 

Have  you  betrayed  my  great  love,  to  express 
Itself  in  such  poor  likenesses ! 

The  springs 

Of  all  my  joy  well  up  in  thee ; 
And  all  my  journeyings 

Are  to  or  from  thee ;  and  the  thoughts  I  have 
Forever  circle  round  about  thy  love, 
As  bees  in  Spring  about  my  lindens  do, 
When  all  day  long  they  murmur. 

And  yet  you, 

I  feel,  think  now  my  game  is  poorly  played. 
Similitudes  are  faint,  nay  more,  they  're  dead ; 
And  our  slight  play  at  these  has  such  a  base 
Of  earnest  as  shall  make  me  rather  say 
These  likenesses  —  nothing  so  poor  as  they !  — 
Are  but  themselves  as  straws  or  feathers,  cast 
Lightly  upon  a  wind :  how  strong  the  blast, 
How  mighty,  and  in  what  direction  blown, 
Their  lightness  tells  you. 

On  my  deep  Love  thrown, 

How  speedingly  and  swift  they  're  fled  and  gone ! 
Upon  that  blessed  stream  they  flee  from  me 
Fast,  fast !  and  hasten,  hasten,  dear,  to  thee ! 


THE  OLD  TOWN  BY  THE  SEA. 

THERE  is  an  old  town  by  the  sea, 
That  lies  alone  and  quietly. 
Behind,  the  sand-dunes  bleak  and  gray 
Stretch  to  the  low  hills  away ; 
Before,  the  ripple  laps  and  calls, 
Running  along  the  weedy  walls ; 
Like  crescents  pale,  on  either  side, 
The  silver  sands  receive  the  tide  ; 
And  from  the  winding  streets  you  see 
The  great,  green  waters  of  the  sea. 

The  wind  blows  coldly  from  the  north, 
On  winter  dawns,  when  in  the  gray, 
Dim  light  the  fisher-folk  set  forth, 
And  in  their  dories  ride  away. 
All  day  a  golden  sunlight  sleeps 
On  the  gray  town  ;  and  hour  by  hour 
The  sea  its  calm  reflection  keeps, 
All  golden  as  a  golden  flower. 

When  coldly  sets  the  sun,  the  town 
Nestles  in  soft  shadow  down  ; 
And  flocking  in  across  the  main, 
The  fishermen  come  home  again. 

And  through  the  dusk,  up  to  the  town, 
The  bronzed,  gray-bearded  faces  go  ; 


42  MOTHER  AND   CHILD 

The  lights  are  lit ;  and  to  and  fro 
Groups  move  along  the  street,  and  men 
And  women  talk  in  twilight  air  ; 
And  the  town  is  noisy,  —  while,  all  fair, 
And  golden  through  the  evening  gray, 
Far  out,  the  great  and  unknown  ships 
Sail,  and  sail,  and  pass  away. 

The  lights  go  out ;  the  town  is  still ; 
And  all  night  long  the  ocean's  swell 
Is  soft  and  full ;  and  a  gray  mist 
Falls  slowly  down, 
And  steals  away  the  silent  town 
Out  of  the  world  ;  and  naught  may  tell 
That  the  town  lives,  —  only  the  swell 
Of  the  waters,  the  long,  quiet  swell. 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD. 

THE  wind  roars  through  the  night ; 
Gusts  of  the  wind  and  sudden  flaws 
Shake  the  casement ;  and  hark  I 
Far  from  above 
Forests  contending  in  air 
War,  and  the  vale  below, 
Swollen  in  all  its  streams, 
Murmurs,  —  a  voice  of  floods 
Answering  the  voices  of  air. 


MOTHER  AND   CHILD  43 

And  still  the  great  wind  bandies  the  answers 

Back  and  forth,  and  with  loud,  continuous  roar 

Rushes  unseen  through  the  wide  darkness. 

Still  as  a  thought  of  quietness  and  love, 

Still  as  a  thought,  this  little  candle  burns. 

Its  constant  spire  with  a  rich,  yellow  light 

Fills  my  chamber,  and  by  its  magic  light 

I  read  a  wondrous  story,  from  a  book 

Swarthy  and  dark,  —  dark,  swarthy  as  a  face 

Of  Syrian  shepherd  on  the  desert  hills 

Feeding  his  flock  at  noon ;  —  and  the  book  wakens 

From  its  dry  sleep,  and  tells  me  a  wondrous  story : 

How  Mary  the  mother 

Came  to  the  inn,  —  perchance  on  such  a  night ! 

And  how  the  inn  was  full ;  and  in  a  manger 

She  made  her  bed,  sadly  and  fearfully ; 

And  from  the  windows  of  the  inn  the  light 

Looked  insolently  out.     How  none  cared  for  them, 

For  her  the  humble,  for  him  a  carpenter,  — 

None,  save  a  little  maid  who  came  to  them 

Bearing  them  food  from  the  inn,  and  a  shepherd 

lad 

Who  laid  the  soft  and  fleecy  cloak  he  wore 
Down  in  the  manger  ;  and  how  the  little  group, 
With  but  a  single  lantern,  in  the  dark  stable 
Was  gathered,  where  the  hay  was  freshly  mown,  — 
This  too  I  read,  —  and  rustled  and  smelled  sweet. 
And  how  her  voice  so  gentle  was,  the  while 
She  lay  in  pain,  and  the  great  oxen  lowed, 
And  the  sheep  huddled  in  the  dark  ;  and  the  rain 
—  Even  as  now !  —  fell  softly  on  the  roof, 
Innumerably  plashing,  soft  and  low, 


44  MOTHER  AND   CHILD 

The  while  the  watch-dog  barked. 
Then  how  she  bore 

Her  little  child,  sore  travailing  in  the  night, 
In  darkness  travailing  while  the  night  was  long. 
And  how  when  He  was  born,  and  lapped  about 
By  loving  hands,  the  fragrant  breath  of  the  kine 
Filled  Mary's  sense,  and  she  woke  to  that  cry, 
The  gentle  plaining  of  a  new-born  thing, 
Soft  as  the  murmur  of  a  hidden  brook, 
Hidden  in  grass,  and  scarcely  murmuring. 

Then,  even  as  I  read, 
One  of  the  herd  in  the  winter-yard  below 
Lowed  softly  in  a  lull  of  the  storm  ;  a  dog 
Bayed,  and  was  still ;  and  from  afar  a  cock 
Crew  lustily  thrice. 

And  again  I  sought  the  volume, 
And  would  have  read,  and  could  not,  for  a  mist 
That  rose  before  me  ;  for  the  words  of  the  volume, 
All  the  printed  words,  became  like  clouds, 
Mistily  gathered,  and  they  wreathed,  and  wreath 
ing, 

Rose  in  the  air,  and  hung  ;  —  then,  like  a  cloud 
Through  which  the  blue  looks  out,  they  opened,  and 

showed  me 

The  picture  of  the  story,  and  on  that  picture 
Rested  and  fed  my  gaze  :  the  stall  and  manger, 
In  the  dim  light ;  the  lantern  in  the  hand 
Of  the  lad  who  held  it,  painting  the  great  rafters  ; 
The  mother  pale  as  the  last  cloud  of  even, 
And  the  boy,  rosy  as  the  morning  light, 
Lying  upon  her  bosom,  as  a  bright  star 


MOTHER  AND   CHILD  45 

Hid  or  half-hidden  in  a  summer  cloud  ; 

His  tiny  hand 

Touching,  clasping  her  breast,  and  her  young  eyes 

Down-looking. 

And  all  the  while, 

Outside  the  sheeted  rain, 

The  driving  mists,  gusts  of  the  rain,  and  flaws, 

And  a  mighty,  uncontrollable  spirit  of  wind 

Rushing  through  the  wide  darkness, 

With  loud,  continuous  roar. 


A   TALE. 

"  The  fallen  blood  of  martyrs  is  in  vain, 
If  ours  be  not  as  free  to  fall  again." 

THERE  lies  a  village  on  a  northern  hill : 
Behind  it  the  Green  Mountains  rise  and  fill 
The  air  with  their  dark  forests ;  but  before, 
The  meadowy  hills,  like  waves  without  a  shore, 
In  gentle  undulations  fall  away 
To  the  horizon  ;  —  they  are  sweet  with  hay 
For  many  a  mile  in  summer ;  but  't  was  now 
Chill  March ;  upon  those  hills  the  heavy  snow, 
Beneath  the  pine  and  o'er  the  river,  lay, 
All  blue  and  cold  under  the  cold,  blue  day. 

It  was  the  world  of  Winter,  still  and  white. 

The  sun  upon  the  snow  struck  dazzling  light 

Into  the  air,  till  the  high  mountains  shore 

His  beams  as  he  declined  and  day  was  slowly  o'er. 

As  then  his  intercepted  light  forsook 

The  village  roofs  with  their  blue,  quiet  smoke, 

It  dwelled  last  on  an  elm,  whose  spreading  boughs 

Hung  leaflessly  above  an  old,  gray  house, 

Low-roofed,  and  lawned  about,  that  on  the  road, 

Perhaps  a  stone's  throw  from  the  village,  stood 

Looking  with  all  its  windows  to  the  east. 


A    TALE  47 

It  seemed  a  silent  place  ;  its  walls  had  ceased 
Long  time  to  echo  noisy  laughter,  for 
Its  happy  children  were  gone  forth ;  —  the  war, 
Calling  all  men, — the  ploughman  from  his  plough, 
The  shepherd  from  his  flock,  and  those  that  sow 
From  the  rolled  field,  —  thus  calling  without  ruth 
To  noble  hearts,  bore  them  from  their  first  youth, 
And  from  that  home  beneath  New  England  skies, 
And  from  the  calm  light  of  their  mother's  eyes. 

She  sent  them,  saying,  "  Other  women  give 

Alms  to  the  poor ;  I  bid  my  sons  to  live, 

Or  die,  if  need  be,  for  their  land."    And  they, 

As  if  the  war's  stern  face  were  bright  and  gay, 

Hopeful  as  sunrise,  or  as  if,  indeed, 

The  hand  of  lady  waved  them  to  her  need 

Of  light  and  courteous  kind,  —  so,  to  that  call, 

Their  country's,  gallantly  they  hastened  all ; 

Leaving  their  mother  in  the  home  which  seemed 

To    miss    its  voices ;  —  and    she    missed    them ; 

dreamed 

Hourly  of  them  ;  spoke  of  them  hourly  ;  lived 
But  in  their  thought ;  but  yet  not  vainly  grieved. 
"  Weak  women  chide  at  loss  and  absence,  then 
When  't  is  such  absence  makes  their  babies  men." 
She  would  not ;  't  was  indeed  pleasure  to  bear 
Male  children,  love  them,  teach  them  with  such 

care, 

Infinity  of  care  !  —  but  to  confer 
Manhood  upon  the  world,  as  seemed  to  her, 
That  was  the  nobler  office  ;  and  well  worth 
The  toils  of  motherhood  to  send  men  forth, 


48  A    TALE 

And  watch  them  on  their  way ;  and  thus  at  last 

To  be  repaid  with  honor  for  the  past. 

In  this  first  absent  time  her  youngest  son, 

Still  but  a  boy,  was  her  companion. 

For  though  his  eager  heart  conceived  no  matter 

Softer  than  cannons,  balls,  squadron,  petard,  and 

clatter 

Of  bayonets,  cavalry  reveille,  and  all 
The  rest  that  makes  war  seem  a  musical 
And  gorgeous  game,  still  was  he  judged  too  young 
To  front  the  hardships  that  his  brothers  flung 
Their  lives  into,  and  so  was  chained  at  home ; 
Angrily  dreaming  of  the  Rebel  drum, 
And  chiding  his  youth's  backward  stay. 

This  lad 

His  mother  loved  above  the  rest ;  —  she  showed 
Justly  no  favor  to  him,  more  than  she 
To  all  accorded  ;  but  since  in  his  free 
And  happy  mind,  and  his  quick,  eager  eyes, 
She  seemed  to  see  his  father  in  him  rise, 
Living  again,  he  grew  to  be  more  dear ; 
More  hope  she  nursed  for  him,  a  tenderer  fear 
Suffered. 

Her  husband  was  long  dead ;  the  loss 
Of  fortune  treading  on  his  death,  her  cross 
Was  heavy,  and  its  shadow  coldly  lay 
On  her  best  years  :  —  in  whose  dark,  easeless  way, 
The  worst  of  woman's  life,  its  widowhood, 
Loneliness,  labor,  with  long  servitude, 
—  And  to  a  bitter  master,  poverty,  — 


A    TALE  49 

Became  her  lot.     But  whether  sufferingly 

Endured,  or  boldly  faced,  those  painful  days 

Of  man's  neglect  had  rather  seemed  to  raise 

Her  nature  to  its  height  than  to  depress 

Her  spirit,  or  abate,  or  make  that  less 

In  vigor  and  in  pride.     Perchance  she  brought 

From  such  harsh  teaching  time  a  bolder  thought, 

A  freer  view  of  life,  more  love  of  good 

As  knowledge  of  it,  and  a  rectitude 

Of  stricter  aim.     Perchance,  too,  those  dark  years, 

Difficult  poverty,  and  concealed  tears 

Of  passionate  chagrin,  sowed  in  her  will 

And  wish,  ambition  for  her  sons ;  for  still 

Through  all  their  nurture  ran  this  thought,  —  the 

scope 

Of  all  her  actions,  and  her  heaven  of  hope, 
And  fruit  to  come  of  labor :  her  sons  must  be 
First  of  the  first ;  and  most  ambitiously 
Her  mother  spirit  dwelled  on  their  advance. 
But  the  grave  beauty  of  her  countenance 
Took  from  the  harshness  of  those  years  no  trace. 
It  was  a  gentle  and  a  lovely  face. 
Some  look  of  conscious  power  and  dignity 
There  was,  but  mixed  with  beauty  ;  for  the  glow 
Of  her  proud  youth  and  easy  "motion,  too, 
With  pleasure  of  a  stately  courtesy 
Now  mingled,  she  retained  ;  seeming  to  be 
In  all,  a  serene  presence,  to  whom  time, 
Not  grief,  had  brought  a  full  and  equal  calm. 

Cheerless  and  cold,  the  long-expected  morn 
Rose  now,  and  smiled  away  her  youngest  born, 


50  A   TALE 

And  with  a  proud  farewell  she  bade  him  go. 
Forth  then  he  fared  ;  smiling,  assured,  aglow 
With  hope  ;  his  easy  spirits  all  as  light 
And  eager  in  their  motion  as  a  flight 
Of  swallows  o'er  the  home  he  left. 

The  strain 

Of  mighty  struggles,  marches  made  in  vain, 
Circuit,  and  countermarch,  assault,  and  strife 
Of  bayonet  to  bayonet,  —  all  the  life 
Of  tent  and  field  he  knew  :  from  that  remembered 

hour 

When  first  he  gazed  against  the  Rebel  power, 
Drawn  in  the  mists  that  o'er  the  fatal  steep 
Of  Fredericksburg  hung  softly  ;  and  saw  leap 
For  the  first  time  the  cannon's  flash,  and  then 
Heard  the  faint  cheer  afar  ;  —  and  with  his  men 
Marched  through  the  cold  and  sweeping  mist,  all 


With  mantling  cheek  and  throbbing  heart,  that  gray 
And  slaughterous  morn,  wintry  and  white  and  chill, 
Climbing  in  vain  the  thrice-embattled  hill. 

His  was  a  fearless  nature,  light  and  free. 

He  lacked  no  ardor,  and  in  buoyancy 

Of  hope  he  flung  himself  into  grim  fight, 

As  if  it  were  relief  to  him,  delight 

That   gave  his   senses   ease  ;  —  and   gallantly   he 

fought  ! 

Nor  ever  was  by  dangerous  chance  more  sought 
Than  himself  seeking  that  ;  —  so  rose  in  rank  :  the 

game 


A    TALE  51 

Of  war  was  dear  :  he  looked  to  honor,  fame, 
And  power  at  last.    But  the  campaign  at  end, 
And  Winter  fall'n,  his  rank  was  not  his  friend ; 
Nor  yet  the  life  of  camps,  which  wore  away 
His  resolution  ;  and  thus  day  by  day 
The  duties  of  his  office  were  ill  done  ; 
And  this  or  that  put  off,  to  be  begun 
Another,  more  propitious  time :  —  his  men 
Suffered  in  his  neglect ;  it  was  in  vain 
He  chid  himself ;  till  in  the  next  year's  course 
It  chanced,  through  his  own  negligence,  his  force 
Was,  one  day,  unprepared ;  and  as  the  smoke 
And  flame  and  fury  of  the  fight  awoke,  — 
Involved,  half -clad,  surprised,  —  they  feebly  broke, 
And  fled  :  —  the  dusk  of  dawn  covered  their  flight. 
The  angry  day  scarce  reddened  into  night 
Ere  he  received  stern  reprimand :  —  he  felt 
His  rosy  expectations  pale  and  melt, 
Like  evening  clouds  in  twilight,  fast  away. 
Night  counseled  him  but  ill ;  the  following  day, 
He  rode  at  danger  rashly,  eager  to  win 
Opinion  lost ;  but,  by  himself,  hemmed  in, 
And  overpowered,  though  fighting  still  with  all 
Of  courage,  he  was  captured  ;  and,  the  fall 
Of  fortune's  dice  being  such,  lay  in  the  drouth 
Of  liberty,  sealed  up  in  the  warm  South, 
A  captive,  wounded :  —  unknown  where  ;  no  word 
Came  from  him,  till  by  chance  his  brothers  heard 
From  escaped  prisoners  that  he  lived,  though  pent 
With  thousands,  suffering  every  human  want, 
But  no  more  heard,  and  so  were  free  to  take 
The  easy  way  of  hope,  for  hope's  sweet  sake. 


52  A    TALE 

It  was  of  springs  that  fourth  and  fatal  last : 
Rebellion  like  a  cloud  her  shadow  cast 
On  the  cold  North,  and  frowned  still  on  advance; 
And  like  a  thunderous  cloud  her  countenance 
Grew  dark  and  darker,  on  the  horizon  far 
Seen  gathering  slow  her  majesties  of  war. 
Courage  with  Youth  was  met,  and  all  in  vain 
Hope  with  despair  was  mingled,  to  sustain 
Her  falling  cause ;  the  framework  of  whose  power 
Trembled,  as  deep  in  time  matured  her  final  hour. 
And  though,  in  pride,  she  yet  undauntedly 
Beheld  that  force,  her  fall  which  was  to  be, 
In  wintry,  still  beleaguerment,  all  wide, 
Hemming  her  angers  now  on  every  side, 
Yet  was  her  last  hour  near. 

The  vernal  air 

Is  soft  in  far  Virginia,  the  day  fair 
In  early  March,  and  'neath  such  fair,  soft  day, 
That  army  of  so  long  endurance  lay, 
And  waited  till  the  southern  breezes  blew 
The  flowers  about  the  hills.     For,  then,  they  knew 
The  husbandman  would  turn  the  glebe  again, 
And  the  rich  labor  of  the  year  begin, 
Timely  and  sweet  to  those  in  peace  at  home ; 
And  to  their  arms  labor  of  war  would  come, 
Ploughing  in  blood,  for  peace :  —  such  hope  they 

had 
—  High    hopes,   that    made   a   thousand    bosoms 

glad!  — 

That  he  who  held  the  plough  in  his  strong  hand 
Would  drive  a  furrow  through  th'  unwilling  soil, 


A    TALE  53 

Sharing  to  right  and  left  whatever  band 
Opposed,  and  make  an  ending  of  their  toil. 
And,  looking  from  their  cordon  and  vast  line 
Of  their  redoubts,  they  saw  the  March  sun  shine 
On  bayonet  and  banner,  as  he  rose 
On  fortressed  Petersburg ;  and,  at  day's  close, 
They  heard  the  drum's  long,  distant  roll,  the  call 
Of  the  proud  bugle  wildly  float  and  fall, 
And  rise  again,  all  clear,  where  to  and  fro 
They  half  might  see  the  Rebel  pickets  go. 
So  front  to  front  the  opposed  armies  lay. 

Now  to  the  Northern  camp  there  chanced  one  day 
To  come  a  train  of  prisoners,  set  free 
After  long  sojourn  in  captivity, 
And  in  exchange  brought  North ;  —  a  rumor  blew 
Before  them  to  those  brothers,  —  one  which  drew 
Their  hearts  after  it,  for  they  heard  that  he, 
Their  youngest  fellow,  was  released  and  free, 
And  might  be  now  with  these :  —  they  seemed  to  see 
At  once  their  brother's  face !  and  hasting  out, 
With  anxious  eyes  they  peered  into  that  rout 
Of  ragged,  weak,  and  miserable  men : 
But  among  these  for  one  pale  face  in  vain 
They  sought ;  —  slow  vanished  'neath  dark  firs  the 

train, 

Straggling  away.  —  They  watched  the  last  pass  by, 
The  suffering  last,  beneath  the  low,  gray  sky. 

After  that  day  their  eyes  would  often  dim 
When  they  looked  down,  for  then  they  thought  of 
him, 


54  A    TALE 

And  that  he  lay  in  earth ;  —  since,  now,  indeed, 
So  long  his  prison-time,  they  durst  not  feed 
Their  hopes  of  his  release.     His  mother  lived 
Still  in  such  thought ;  saw  him  alive,  conceived 
No  picture  of  his  death ;  —  but  they  looked  not 
To  see  his  face  or  learn  his  burial  spot. 

Yet  even  as  hope  failed  in  them,  the  lad 

Himself  was  free.  —  He,  with  three  others,  had 

Escaped,  and  found,  after  a  weary  while, 

The  Federal  lines,  —  had  seen  their  banners  smile 

Protection  on  them,  as  all  unconfined 

They  rippled  proudly  in  the  Northern  wind. 

Once  safe  within  this  camp,  he  gave  a  name 

Not  his  ;  —  for  to  the  men  who  with  him  came 

He  was  unknown.  —  The  post  that  he  had  made 

Was  a  remote  one ;  thus  the  plan  he  laid 

Was  easy  to  mature.  —  At  twilight  hour 

Of  a  March  day,  and  after  a  warm  shower 

Of  rain  had  fallen,  and  the  mists  arose 

Among  the  gray  woods,  —  at  such  misty  close 

Of  day,  there  chanced  a  skirmish  of  videttes,  and  he, 

Being  at  hand,  resolved,  was  suddenly, 

Amid  the  dusk,  the  shouts,  the  mist,  the  smoke 

And  the  confusion,  lost :  —  when  morning  broke, 

They  looked  to  find  him ;  when  they  found  him  not, 

Supposed  him  prisoner,  —  deemed  it  a  hard  lot 

Indeed !  —  and  so  dismissed  him  from  their  thought. 

He  had  deserted.  —  In  the  woods  he  lay 
During  the  light,  but  at  each  dusk  of  day 
Set  out,  and  northward  pressed,  until  he  found 


A    TALE  55 

Himself  in  safety,  on  such  Northern  ground 

As  could  not  know  him ;  —  thence  toward  that  one 

place, 
Where  he  would  be,  his  home,  he  turned  his  face. 

In  that  far  home  it  was  decline  of  day, 
Rosy,  remote  ;  the  vale  in  shadow  lay ; 
It  was  the  calm  of  eve ;  afar  the  flocks 
Went,  bleatingly,  among  the  rills  and  rocks 
Of  the  new-melting  fields ;  men's  voices  fell 
Pleasantly  on  the  ear,  and  all  seemed  safe  and  well. 
'T  was  even  at  this  hour  their  mother  went 
To  pray ;  and  standing  in  her  window,  bent 
Incertain  thoughts  to  that  firm  prayer,  that  she 
Breathed  morn  and  eve  for  her  land's  liberty, 
And  her  sons'  honor,  and  their  safe  return ; 
And  for  his  special  guard  whose  death  to  mourn 
Rather  she  feared ;  —  for  so  long  had  he  passed 
Into  the  shadow  of  captivity, 
He  seemed  in  that  obscureness  sunk  and  lost, 
As  seamen  are  engulfed  in  some  dark  sea. 

In  the  still  thought  that  follows  prayer,  a  breeze 

From  day-warmed  meadows  passed  among  the  trees, 

And  bore  to  her  the  sound  of  those  far  floods, 

Like  voices,  talking  in  the  vernal  woods. 

The  sound  and  the  soft  air  together  brought 

Into  her  heart  a  full  and  happy  thought : 

Of  Winter  ending,  of  the  Spring  begun, 

Of  the  fresh  brooks,  and  the  all-fathering  sun, 

And  earth  maternal ;  of  the  quick  release 

Of  nature ;  of  war  ended,  and  firm  peace. 


56  A    TALE 

The  dream  was  fair,  but  like  a  bubble  broke, 
Passing  away  ;  and  sadly,  so,  she  spoke : 
"  The  bluebird  soon  will  brood,  the  willow  bud, 
Hanging  in  tassel ;  this  old  earth  will  be 
Pregnant  once  more ;  but  I,  that  have  no  bud, 
No  brood,  save  absent,  and  no  pregnancy 
Save  of  sad  fear,  —  a  fear  that  suddenly 
Leaps  in  my  bosom  like  a  living  thing ! 
Oh,  I  that  am  long  past  my  bearing  time, 
And  that  impatiently  await  my  sons, 
Can  take  no  pleasure  in  such  interval, 
And  reck  not  if  it  be  the  Winter  now, 
Or  Fall,  or  Spring,  or  of  what  time  it  be, 
Save  that  it  still  is  absent  from  my  sons ! 

—  But  absent  most  from  him,  my  best  of  sons, 
And  the  least  happy,  the  least  fortunate, 
The  most  distressed,  most  pitiable  one ! 

—  Thou  Rock  and  Refuge,  refuge,  shelter  him, 
Who,  lying  on  the  still-cold  earth,  must  sleep 
Betwixt  the  stony  ground  and  Thee,  uncovered, 
Thy  frost  his  covering !  —  oh,  softly  fall, 

On  his  great  weariness,  a  gentle,  rain 
Of  rest  and  slumber !  —  and  Thy  patience  bring, 
Then,  Lord,  to  me,  who  am  impatient  still, 
That  I  may  wait  Thy  blessed  tunes  and  Thee." 

A  star  rose  in  the  south,  and,  shining  clear, 
Trembled  and  glittered  through  earth's  atmosphere ; 
And  gazing  toward  that    fire    she   guessed   that 

where 

Its  noon  of  glory  hung,  the  risen  star 
Looked  on  her  son,  imprisoned,  hid  away 


A    TALE  57 

Among  the  Southern  hills ;  —  and,  perhaps,  there 

the  day 
Sets  with  a  softer  light :  — 

"  Whence  April  comes, 

Thither  do  my  thoughts  go,  and  there  they  stay ; 
And  my  eyes  follow  them,  for  all  the  day 
They  seek  that  low  horizon  of  the  south ; 
And  every  bird  that  from  the  south  doth  come, 
And  every  little  breeze  that  blows  from  thence, 
Should  be  a  messenger,  to  bear  me  news 
Of  whom  I  long  to  hear,  and  bears  me  none." 

Leaning  upon  the  broad  and  open  sill, 

And  gazing  t'ward  the  light  of  the  hid  sun, 

As  thus  she  breathed  her  longings,  twilight  fell. 

The  gathering  darkness  and  the  quiet  hour 

Had  hushed  day-noises,  and  their  work  was  done 

Who  labored  in  the  day  ;  the  laborer 

Was  gone  unto  his  home  ;  the  fields  were  still, 

And  empty ;  all  was  quietness,  until 

A  step  upon  the  snow  outside  was  heard, 

A  coming  step ;  and  presently  a  word 

In  question  from  the  lawn  below  ;  —  a  man 

Stood  darkly  there,  and  motioned  silence  ;  then 

Entered  the  house ;  and  who  or  what  was  he, 

This  shadow,  motioning  silence  ?  —  what  might  be 

His  errand  ?     As  she  wondered,  thus,  her  door 

Opened  and  shut  behind  this  figure,  more 

Than  whose  dark  outline  she  saw  not ;  —  nor  could 

She  guess  it  was  her  dearest  son  who  stood 

Before  her. 


58  A    TALE 

He  was  stained  and  stale  with  blood; 
Both  frozen  feet  ill-shod ;  a  wounded  hand 
Tied  up,  and  slipt  into  a  yellow  band  ; 
A  rag  about  his  throat ;  his  unkempt  hair 
Tangled,  and  his  whole  mien  and  outward  air 
A  suffering  one.  —  He  spoke  first,  telling  her 
Who  stood  there  was  her  son.  —  As  brokenly 
The  words  fell  from  him,  she  arose,  and  drew 
Near  to   him   quickly,  —  seeing  whose   face,   she 

knew, 
Though  changed,  it  was  her  son's ;  and  her  heart 

gave 

A  cry  within  her,  even  as  if  the  grave 
Had  to  her  arms  surrendered  him. 

The  room 

Was  long  and  low,  and  being  thick  with  gloom,  — 
Though  close  to  him,  holding  him  in  embrace,  — 
She  saw  but  as  in  twilight  that  his  face 
Was  haggard,  pale,  and  pinched  ;  still,  half  in  fear, 
At  what  she  yet  but  half-perceived,  the  air 
Broke  into  light :  the  fire  on  the  broad  hearth 
Lived ;  and  his  features  from  the  dark  sprang  forth, 
And  horrified  her  :  —  for  she  saw  distress 
Of  nature,  and  a  cloud,  a  bitterness 
Shadowing  his  youthful  beauty  and  fresh  look. 
And  a  light,  restless,  angered  spirit  broke 
Upon  her  from  his  eyes  :  —  in  paleness  set 
These  were  too  brilliant ;  and,  as  the  flame  lit 
And  warmed  the  air,  there  was  in  the  whole  man 
A  robbed  and  hungry,  restless,  eager,  wan, 
Accusing  look,  with  somewhat  still,  indeed, 


A    TALE  59 

Of  broken  beauty,  fallen  light.     She  read 
The  troublous  writing  of  his  countenance 
Clearly ;  but  what  its  meaning  ?  what  the  sense 
Of  that  confusion  ? 

Questioning  him,  he 

Told  her  of  his  escape,  and  northward  way  ; 
The  stubborn  hardship,  hunger  ;  sleep  by  day, 
And  weary  stumblings  through  the  fearful  night, 
Until  the  goal  was  reached,  and  the  releasing  light 
Of  day  was  his  :  —  then,  suddenly,  as  though 
'T  were  an  expected  part  of  this  :  To  know 
Further  she  must  not  seek  ;  —  let  him  be  not  denied 
In  such  request ;  —  the  world  was  safe  and  wide 
For  others,  not  for  him !  —  a  hiding-place 
Was  what  he  sought,  a  refuge  for  a  space 
Of  days,  with  secrecy,  —  till  time  should  show 
A  fairer  face  for  him  ;  —  't  was  wisdom  so  to  do ! 
—  As  for  his  paleness  and  the  rest,  she  knew 
War  was  a  suffering  game. 

His  secrecy, 

His  haggard  looks,  and  seeming  scarce  to  be 
Himself,  filled  her  with  dread.  —  She  hastily 
Demanded  to  know  all :  Why  fear  the  light 
Of  open  words  ?    Was  knowledge  not  her  right  ? 
And  what  had  he  to  hide  away  ?  or  why 
Fear  her  ?  what  danger  ?  and  what  secrecy  ? 
Secrecy  !  —  Let  him  speak ! 

So  the  lad  told  her  then 
His  secret :  —  he  had  deserted ;  ay,  't  was  done  ! 


60  A    TALE 

And  't  was  well  done ;  —  nothing  be  said !    A  crime 
It  was  ?     So  let  it  be !     Chance  of  the  time 
Had  made  it  so,  no  more !     His  duty  was  to  go 
Back  to  his  brothers,  to  the  army  ?     So 
He  would  not  do !     None  knew  him  free,  or  that 
He  was  not  buried ;  —  he  had  for  his  part 
Determined  he  would  not  again  be  one 
To  suffer  as  the  rest  did :  he  was  done 
With  service,  though  death  chanced  from  it. 

She  heard, 

As  one  hears  through  a  dream  a  waking  word, 
All  that  he  said ;  —  and  so  this  boy,  this  man, 
This  voice,  this  shadow,  this  pale  face,  so  wan 
In  the  warmth  even,  was  her  son  !  —  'T  was  he 
Whom  she  had  nursed,  —  brought  up  to  treachery ! 
—  She  heard  him  now  asking  her  to  forgive, 
And  slowly  she  began  again  to  live, 
And  to  come  back  to  life.  —  A  gentleman 
And  do  this  thing !  —  Had  he  no  honor,  then  ? 
Back  to  her  heart  the  blood  began  to  pour, 
And  it  beat  quick  and  high,  as  he  replied 
That  he  was  done  with  honor,  with  false  pride  ; 
A  crust  of  bread  was  what  he  asked  her  for, 
A  roof  to  sleep  under !  —  and  asked  no  more ! 
She  bade  him  then  to  tell  her  all ;  —  that  she 
Might  tread  the  path  he  had ;  that  she  might  see 
As  with  his  eyes :  holding  herself  in  check, 
She  spoke  so,  for  her  thoughts  began  to  break 
Stormily  in  her ;  but  the  lad,  as  one 
Who 's  weary  of  his  life  beneath  the  sun, 
Answered,  "  I  've  told  you  all.  —  What  shall  I  say 


A    TALE  61 

More  than  I  have  ?  "  —  And  so  't  was  rubbed  away, 
His  love  of  country,  like  a  surface  gloss, 
By  touch  of  opposition ;  —  and  it  was 
Thus  with  ambition,  honor,  duty  !  all 
The  worth  of  life  had  he  let  die,  let  fall ; 
Where  had  he  buried  these  ?  —  for  where  they  lay 
Himself  was  buried,  and  her  heart  would  stay. 
The  words  leaped  from  him,  even  as  if  his  heart 
Had  been  plucked  by  her  words  in  its  most  wounded 
part. 

"  Ambition,  duty,  my  desire  of  honor, 
Lie  where  my  health  does ;  and  my  hopes,  I  left  them 
In  that  bright,  sunny  hell,  that  prison-pen, 
That  field  of  desperate  patience,  bloody  spot ! 
Where  my  friends  languish  now,  where  my  thoughts 

are, 

Of  which,  whether  I  will  or  no,  I  think, 
By  day,  by  night,  and  being  free  of  it, 
Horrible  dreams  imprison  me  again, 
And  free,  —  I  am  not  free !  " 

"  I  rather  woidd 

That  you  were  in  that  prisoning  place  again 
Than  free,  having  deserted !  " 

Hearing  her 

Labor  in  breath,  and  in  the  lighter  air, 
Seeing  her  face  of  horror,  as  she  spoke, 
He  answered  gently,  with  a  gentler  look : 
"  Say  what  you  will,  mother,  of  my  desertion ; 
If  it  be  crime  or  not,  yet  this  thing 's  sure : 


62  A    TALE 

If  I  go  hence,  —  and  I  can  go  no  further, 

And  will  not,  —  as   the   times   are  turned  more 

strict, 

So  in  this  stricter  time  who  dares  to  err 
As  I  have,  errs  against  his  chance  of  life." 

And  so  should  he  set  out,  and  meet  his  fate  ? 
He  would  if  so  she  bade  him,  for  the  weight 
Of  life  was  heavy ;  —  yet  if  she  would  give 
Shelter  and  bread,  he  asked  no  more  ;  —  to  live ! 

She  gazed  at  him  :  —  what  was  it  that  had  pulled 
His  soul  so  down  ?  —  What  heavy  blow  had  dulled 
The  edge  of  his  high  spirit  ?  soiled  him  so, 
So  dragged,  so  beaten  down?  —  what  heavy  blow? 
Desertion !  —  shelter  and  bread !  —  'T  was  come  to 

that! 

Her  anger  burst  from  her,  and  she  cried  out 
To  him: 

"  My  lad,  I  sent  you  forth,  and  bade  you 
To  do  and  be  what  might  become  your  nature, 

—  Not  ruin  it !  and  what  might  grace  your  name, 

—  Not  blacken  it !  —  but  not  to  be  a  coward, 
I  did  not  bid  you  that !  " 

"  I  well  remember 

The  day  you  sent  me,  what  you  bade  me  be : 
Ambitious,  first,  and  brave,  then  dutiful ; 
I  was  such  ;  —  oh,  put  by  all  woman's  fear ! 
I  have  not  been  a  coward ;  I  have  been 
As  most  men  are,  nor  ever  have  I  found 


A    TALE  63 

It  hard  to  be  as  brave  as  other  men. 

For  to  make  light  of  death, 

To  run  the  chance  of  death,  to  laugh  at  it, 

When  the  blood 's  hot  is  easy ; 

Courage  is  common,  and  the  worst  men  fight 

As  women  love  :  it  is  their  native  thing." 

"  If  you  've  embraced  the  dangers  of  your  duty, 
And  met  them,  rather  than  were  met  by  them ; 
If  you  've  so  borne  yourself  against  your  foe, 
If  you  have  fought 

As  women  love,  —  which  is  most  passionately  ! 
Proudly !  without  recall !  — why,  then,  my  boy, 
You  cannot  have  deserted,  as  you  say." 

The  lad  smiled  bitterly,  threw  out  his  hand, 
And  fluttered  it  all  lightly,  even  as  if 
He  stood  upon  some  sea-opposing  cliff, 
Looking  below,  and  saw  upon  the  sand 
And  beach  of  ocean  a  great  army  flow 
With  music  by ;  and  with  his  hand  would  show 
How  gorgeously  and  wide   they  swept   the   plain 
below. 

"  Ah,  cannons'  thunder,  pennons,  and  bright  lances 
And  bayonets  that  catch  the  morning  on  them, 
And  look  like  the  sun's  children,  this  is  war 
To  women,  —  bugle  and  drum,  the  naked  sword ! 
And,  o'er  the  sweat  and  darkness  of  their  toil 
Who  labor  in  these  bloody  fields  of  war, 
Honor,  forever  rising  like  a  sun, 
Gilding  the  best "  — 


64  A    TALE 

His  voice  broke  sharply,  as 
He  raised  his  glance  to  where,  so  might  it  seem, 
This  sun  of  honor  rose,  and  with  proud  beam 
Gilded  those  happier ! 

"  Were  war  but  this, 
And  did  advancement  shine  upon  desert, 
Not  erringly,  like  heaven's  equal  beams, 
That  blind  and  seeing  eyes  receive  alike, 
Then  war  might  be  as  you  imagine  it, 
—  And  then  my  tale  had  had  a  different  ending  ! 

"  No,  mother,  war  is  dull ;  war  't  is  to  wait, 

And  still  to  wait,  impatiently  to  wait, 

And  to  be  kept 

Forever  to  the  post  of  duty  tied, 

Locked  in  the  prison  of  a  dull  routine, 

And  married  to  delay,  to  long  delay! 

War  is  a  stillness,  a  dull  stream  of  quiet, 

A  stagnant  hell ;  and  when  the  heart  is  hot, 

And  full  of  motion  and  fire,  then  —  then  to  have 

A  thousand  thousand  little  routine  acts, 

A  hundred  thousand  punctual  things  to  do, 

Impudent,  teasing,  little  flies  of  things, 

To  brush  away  by  doing ;  and  to  be  wounded 

In  some  close,  sudden  skirmish  of  the  night, 

Where  no  reprisal 's  possible,  —  that 's  war  ! 

And  war  it  is  to  be  a  prisoner 

For  eight,  long,  savage  months  as  I,  —  that,  too, 

Was  war  ;  and  I  was  sick  in  prison,  —  that, 

That,  too,  was  war ;  and  all  my  sufferings, 

Famine,  disaster,  insult,  wounds,  disease, 

And  that  heartsickness  that  defers  its  hope 


A    TALE  65 

Even  beyond  the  grave,  —  all  these  were  war  ! 
And  war  is  glorious  —  or  so  you  say ; 
Glory  almost  a  God  —  or  't  is  to  you  !  " 

"  If  what  you  say  is  so,  and  these  things  are 

The  very  nature,  the  true  fact  of  war 

And  face  of  duty,  always  thus,  —  why,  then, 

A  woman's  life  is  made  up  of  such  things ; 

Is  even  such  a  struggle,  such  a  war ; 

As  full  of  petty  hardship ;  and  not  less 

It  is  the  stream  of  a  perpetual  quiet ; 

And  with  a  thousand  punctual  things  to  do, 

Impudent,  teasing,  petty  flies  of  things  ! 

—  And  when  its  crown  of  motherhood  is  come, 

It  is  a  kind  of  patient  suffering ; 

Unhonored,  unpref erred ;  —  inglorious, 

Save  for  the  glory  that  our  sons  reflect 

By  their  bright   deeds !  —  and   since  we   too   are 

soldiers, 

Our  life  is  often  an  imprisonment ; 
The  prison,  idleness ;  —  and  when  't  is  busy, 
It  is  with  babyhood,  a  little  thing, 
Even  as  you  were !  —  and  for  hope  deferred,  — 
Heaven  knows,  I  hoped !  —  you  have  deferred  my 

hope, 
Oh,  even  beyond  the  grave  ! 

"  Say,  you  have  not, 

Or  will  not ;  that  you  lied !  —  say  —  what  you  will ! 
Rather  than  what  you  have  ! 
Why  are  you  silent  ?     Speak  to  me  and  tell  me, 
You  have  some  other  reason,  cogent  more 


66  A    TALE 

Than  those  you  give  me,  which  persuaded  you 
To  this  dishonor  ?  —  What,  no  reason  ?  —  none  ? 
Let  me  not  think  you've  none!     Oh,  you  have 

made  me 

The  mother  of  more  shame  than  I  will  bear ! 
Where  was  your  pride  ?  or  pride  or  patience  out, 
Where  was  your  love  ?  —  for  you  owe  love  to  me ! 
If  that  held  not,  the  love  I  had  to  you, 
Which  was  the  very  pressure  of  my  heart, 
Its  natural  motion.     Oh,  could  that  great  love, 
That  strength  of  all  my  heart,  not  buoy  you  up  ? 
Not  hold  you  to  yourself  ?  not  bind  you  round  ? 
So  that  you  could  not  err,  wildly,  as  now, 
Tossed  by  a  wind,  rent  from  your  honor,  blown 
Hither  and  thither  by  a  fickle  wind, 
And  made  a  wreck  of  ?  —  Oh,  indeed  I  think 
My  love  was  little  to  you,  yours  to  me 
Nothing,  or  else  such  loves  had  held  you  firm !  " 

He  answered,  gently  :  —  "As  for  love,  and  love, 
My  love  to  you  has  no  more  suffered  change 
Than  yours  to  me.  —  When,  often,  on  the  ground 
I  lay,  and  looked  upon  the  stars  of  heaven, 
And  thought  that  they  were  high,  —  but  yet  more 

high, 

More  out  of  my  low  reach,  more  distant  far, 
Preferment,  like  a  very  planet,  shone, 
Near  to  my  hope,  but  very  far  from  me  ! 
A  golden  glory  that  I  could  not  pluck, 
Though  I  should  reach  forever,  —  then,  why,  then 
Almost  I  could  have  wept  to  be  with  you  ; 
Cried  like  a  little  child,  because  the  fruit 


A  TALE  67 

Of  all  my  hopes  and  fears  was  hung  too  high ; 
And  wished  to  be  with  you  for  comfort's  sake. 
Nor  only  then  have  wanted  you,  but  oft 
Upon  my  prison-bed,  —  the  hot,  bare  sand  ! 
Sick,  I  have  counted  o'er  my  thoughts  of  you, 
Wanting  yourself,  and  wished  that  I  might  see  you, 
Might  look  upon  your  face  that  was  the  sun 
Of  all  my  hopes  !  " 

"  That  sun  is  clouded  from  you, 
And  your  dishonor  is  the  cloud  through  which 
It  cannot  pierce  to  you  !  —  You  speak,  my  son, 
Of  love,  and  constancy  in  filial  love. 
I  do  not  know  if  you  are  constant  in  it, 
Or  constant  to  yourself  in  anything  ; 
But  to  desert,  with  whatsoever  cause, 
Or  with  whatever  color  of  excuse, 
Is  to  desert  your  country,  and  yourself 
And  manhood,  and  your  honor,  and  your  race, 
And  my  opinion  and  my  love  of  you. 
I  do  not  know  how  you  have  dared  so  far ! 
Or  thought  that  I  could  favor  you  so  much 
As  to  forget  my  country's  other  sons  ! 
Seek  not  your  help  from  me  !  —  May  your  salvation 
Drop  from  some  other  hand  ! 
For  not  so  much  of  water  or  of  bread 
Will  I  give  to  you  as  a  sparrow  might 
Feed  to  her  little  young,  —  her  innocent  young  ! 
Ah,  happy  mother,  she  !  —  and  Heaven,  hearing, 
If  I  were  brave  indeed,  as  I  am  not, 
And  did  I  cling  to  justice,  as  I  do  not, 
I  would  not  shelter  you,  —  not  look  on  you ! 


68  A    TALE 

But  since  the  God  that  gives  us  to  be  just 

Is  merciful,  I  will  be  that  soft  thing  ; 

Though  I  grieve  Valor  by  it,  I  will  say 

To  none  that  you  are  here  —  to  none !  —  oh,  may 

None  ask  me  if  you  are  !  —  Merciful  Heaven  ! 

Your  father !  —  should  I  die,  and  meet  your  father, 

As  I  have  hoped  to  do,  ay,  face  to  face, 

What  shall  I  say  to  him  ?  —  Alas  !  your  crime 

Has  made  me  fear  my  death,  which  I  desired !  " 

"  The  Heaven  that  you  hope  for  may  forgive  you  ; 

Pray,  mother,  that  it  do !  for  I  will  not. 

Farewell !  —  A  happy  meeting  with  my  father  ! 

And  tell  him  of  your  mercy  to  his  son. 

As  for  desire  of  death,  desire  of  it 

Greater  than  mine  you  cannot  have  :  short  pain, 

And  ending  of  great  weariness !  " 

He  turned 
And  left  her. 

It  was  now  full  night, 
And  he  was  weary,  and  his  head  was  light 
And  giddy  with  grief  and  hunger ;  his  heart  spent 
Of  all  its  force :  if  death  was  imminent, 
And  capture  close,  so  be  it !  —  He  must  have 
Sleep  first,  —  without  delay  !  —  sleep,  though  the 

grave 

Gaped  for  his  hour  of  waking  !     In  a  shed, 
Stuffed  with  oat-straw,  and  like  a  thing  half  dead, 
His  body  threw  itself,  and  slept  away 
The  night,  and  morning,  till  the  noon  of  day. 
Waked  from  this  happy  death,  he  could  scarce  see 
If  it  were  day  or  night ;  he  could  scarce  hear 


A    TALE  69 

A  sound,  save  the  straw  rustling  treacherously  ; 

Till,  as  he  listened,  in  suspense,  all  near 

In  the  warm  dark  he  heard  the  oxen  low, 

And  regular  breathing  of  the  quiet  herd, 

And  guessed  that  it  was  past  the  morning's  glow  ; 

For,  far  away,  there  was  a  little  bird 

Singing,  on  some  high  tree,  —  he  knew  not  where  ; 

Save  that  it  sung  in  the  sweet,  open  air, 

At  liberty,  and  for  the  gentle  sake 

Of  love,  as  if  its  little  heart  would  break ! 

So,  in  obscurity  and  pain,  he  lay, 

Suspicious,  and  in  fear,  while  through  the  day 

His  thoughts  came  to  him :  — "  Ah,  his  mother's 

heart 

Played  in  such  justice  but  a  little  part ! 
How  without  mercy  !  —  Could  a  woman  be 
So  harsh  to  her  own  son  ?     'T  was  strange  that  she 
Who  held  him  in  especial  love  should  yet 
So  far  her  nature  and  that  love  forget 
As  thus  to  be  his  death,  —  for  't  was  no  less  !  " 
And  so  he  communed  still  with  his  own  bitterness : 
"  I  asked  for  honor  once,  and  then  received 
No  jot  of  what  I  asked ;  —  I  asked  for  justice  : 
It  was  not  given  me  ;  —  for  mercy  now, 
And  am  denied  even  that !  —  Say  I  have  erred, 
And  should  have  practiced  patience,  should  have 

been 

The  thing  I  will  not,  —  shall  my  mother  judge  me  ? 
Is  man  my  judge  ?     He  must  be  then  my  peer, 
Fellow  in  grief,  a  sufferer  in  kind, 
And  in  degree  of  kind,  —  which  cannot  be  ! 
Or  may  not  easily.  —  Justice  is  lies  ! 


70  A    TALE 

Alas,  our  life  is  bitterness,  and  we 
Resent  the  gall  of  it,  as  if  we  were 
Children  of  milk  and  honey  ! 

"  We  ourselves 

Are  to  ourselves  justice  and  mercy  both ; 
And  if  we  thirst  for  these,  —  as  well  we  may 
In  this  dry  world,  this  world  of  bitter  thirsts, 
This  unjust,  sad,  depriving  world,  —  if  we 
Thirst  here  for  heaven  or  for  heavenly  justice, 
Or  any  good  of  earth,  our  soul  's  the  cup, 
The  fountain  and  the  source  that  these  flow  from ; 
Else  they  flow  not  at  all !     Or  if  they  do, 
Are  riled,  and  muddy ;  —  ay,  even  as  the  cup 
To  which  I  set  my  lips  is  full  of  grief, 
And  hath  a  bitter  taste,  and  bitterly 
I  drink,  perforce,  by  need,  not  wishing  it. 
Oh,  I  have  now  drunk  up 
So  much  of  anguish  it  hath  made  me  heavy  ! 
And  if  I  have  done  well,  or  ill,  or  what 
Or  how  have  done,  I  know  not,  and  care  little. 
I  am  too  miserably  suffering 
To  know  more  of  it  than  a  drunkard  may 
Of  the  wide  heaven,  —  when,  waked  from  his  dull 

stupor, 

He  rubs  his  eyes,  and  looks  on  heaven's  vault, 
Thick-sown  with  stars,  and  wonders  at  their  light, 
And  knows  not  what  they  are ;  and  looks  again, 
And  wonders  at  himself !     Even  so  am  I !     I  reel 
Drunkenly  forth,  and  look  on  life,  and  know 
I  know  not  what  it  is !  — know  not,  nor  care." 


A    TALE  71 

So  darkly  passed  his  day.     He  durst  not  seek 

For  sustenance  till  night ;  though  he  was  weak 

And  plagued  with  hunger. 

Since  the  hour  he  crept 

To  his  poor  rest,  his  mother  had  not  slept, 

Or  her  heart  ceased  from  torture  ;  till,  about 

The  sunset  hour  of  calm,  she  walked  without, 

Not  guessing  that  her  son  was  lying  near. 

The  heaven,  still  luminous,  cast  down  its  clear, 

Blue  light ;  and  as  she  walked  toward  the  wood, 

She  noticed  on  the  snow  large  drops  of  blood,  — 

One  here,  one  there,  another  of  them  yon ; 

They  flecked   those    footprints,  that  went,  waver 
ing,  on 

To  a  little  shed,  there  ceasing.  —  She  stood  still, 

And  on  them  looked  :  —  the  bright  drops  worked 
their  will 

On  her ;  —  for  she  guessed  from  whose  heart  they 
fled. 

Those  precious  drops,  that  seemed  so  gay  and  red, 

Commanded  her :  —  she  heard. 

The  selfsame  night 

She  bore  her  son  both  food  and  drink ;  ere  light 

Of  the  next  day  the  same. 

There  was  a  small 

Square  niche,  where  pigeons  nested,  in  the  wall ; 

Therein   she   placed   that   which   she   brought   to 
him; 

But  always  with  veiled  face,  and  in  the  dim 

Light,  late  or  early,  came  and  went, 

All  stolenly,  and  quiet,  as  one  bent 

On  theft.     But  he  well  knew  whose  kindness  laid 


72  A    TALE 

That  meal  for  him  each  day  ;  —  which  while  she  did, 
It  seemed  to  her  impiety,  and  crime 
'Gainst  valor  she  most  loved. 

But  now,  as  time 

Melted  to  sweeter  Spring,  over  that  house 
The  elm  wove  deeper  umbrage  with  his  boughs  ; 
The  clouds  above  grew  fairer  and  more  fair, 
And  old  men  sunned  their  age  in  the  warm  air; 
While  children  down  the  village  laughed  and  ran, 
And  chattered  like  sweet  starlings  in  the  sun. 
And  touched  with  softness  of  the  coming  May 
There  fell  from  heaven  above  a  vernal  day ; 
One  of  those  days  when  it  is  easier 
To  live,  and  when  more  heavenly  thoughts  occur, 
Like  births  of  the  sweet  sunshine ;  as  the  flowers 
Are  born,  who  are  first  children  of  those  hours. 
Even  thus  the  day  to  her  a  new  hope  brought, 
A  mercy,  and  a  hope  :  —  it  was  a  thought, 
Or  image  of  desire  ;  her  heart  grew  great 
With  it ;  she  could  not  pray,  or  drink,  or  eat, 
Till  wished-for  evening  came. 

Anxiously  then 

He  heard  his  mother  call ;  —  she  called  again 
That  he  should  answer.     Through  a  knotty  flaw 
In  the  unplaned  board  he  looked,  and  dimly  saw 
His  mother,  as  she  stood  there.     A  breeze  blew 
Out  of  the  twilight ;  the  chaff  rose  and  flew, 
Whirlingly,  round  her  feet ;  swallows  o'erhead 
Soft-nestling  in  the  night,  together,  made 
Questioning  little  noises  ;  the  new-milked  herd 


A    TALE  73 

Lowed  softly  in  the  darkness  of  their  yard  ; 
And  water  plashed,  and  fell. 

"  'T  is  I,  my  son. 

I  come  to  bid  you  leave  this  shameful  place  ; 
And  this  dark  life  of  hiding,  and  return 
To  where  your  brothers  wait  to  welcome  you. 
They  know  not  your  escape ;  —  return  to  them, 
To  war,  to  service,  to  my  love  of  you, 
And  more  than  all  of  these,  to  your  high  self ! 
This  is  my  message  ;  —  and  I  think  you  hear, 
And  that  you  will,  refreshed  as  now  you  are, 
And  being  yourself  again,  obey  :  —  if  thus, 
Delay  not,  go  ;  linger  not,  go  at  once ! 
And  Heaven  and  fortune  look  on  you  and  bless  you 
With  half  the  fervor  that  your  mother  does." 

Ere  morning  light  she  stood  in  the  same  place, 
And  called  again  :  —  the  days  of  her  distress 
Were  over,  for  no  answer  came ;  her  son 
Was  gone.     He  had,  as  she  had  wished  him,  done. 
And  following  soon  on  that  she  heard  from  him, 
That  he  was  well ;  his  life  was  in  the  stream 
Of  new  events  ;  that  he  had  joined  his  men ; 
The  army  was  to  march,  —  't  was  war  again. 

So  the  first  days  of  April  passed,  until 

One  blessed  evening,  when  all  was  still, 

The  church-bells  rang  a  sudden  sweetness  out 

Upon  the  twilight  air ;  the  hills  about 

Echoed  that  happiness  :  —  great  news  had  come  ; 

And  in  the  village  men  and  women,  dumb 


74  A    TALE 

With  joy,  or  violently  weeping,  broke 

The  glad  news  to  each  other ;  strangers  spoke 

To  strangers,  —  hands  clasped  hands  ;  —  for  it  was 

done : 

Lee  had  surrendered,  and  the  mighty  sun 
Of  fierce  Rebellion  set ;  dismay  was  o'er ; 
It  was  the  happy  ending  of  long  war  ; 
Heaven  was  returned  :  —  to  prisoned  men,  release  ; 
To  the  slave,  freedom ;  and  to  all  men,  peace. 

Although  a  voice  of  triumph  seemed  to  fill 
The  world,  yet  calm  fell  not  on  her,  until 
There  came  a  message  from  her  eldest  son, 
Telling  her  of  his  brother  :  —  He  had  done 
His  whole  of  duty,  —  gallantly,  too ;  —  the  end 
Was  such  as  she,  his  mother,  must  commend  : 
It  was  a  soldier's  death,  —  who  could  not  yield 
His  soul  with  better  grace  than  on  the  field 
Of  final  victory  ;  —  't  was  as  he  led 
The  way,  with  needless  valor,  that  he  paid 
The  last,  great  price  ;  —  let  not  his  mother  weep : 
He  had  a  soldier's  grave,  a  soldier's  sleep. 

She  wept  not  when  she  heard  that  he  was  dead ; 
But  when  she  heard  that  his  young  spirit  fled 
Amidst  the  cannon's  roar,  and  in  the  glance 
Of  arms,  in  gallant  and  sustained  advance 
'Gainst  well-replenished  lines,  and  that  he  slept 
In  honor  where  he  fell,  —  't  was  then  she  wept. 

The  day  that  followed  that  most  bitter  eve 

Was  Easter  morning,  when  men  must  not  grieve. 


A    TALE  75 

And  as  her  loss  in  slumber  seemed  to  weep, 
Her  spirit  communed  with  itself  in  sleep, 
And  she  beheld  the  light  of  dreams ;  and  knew 
Not  where   she  was.      What  space  was   this,  or 

who 

Those  shining  ones  ?     So  pure  and  so  serene ! 
What  was  yon  city  fair  ?  yon  mountain  green  ? 
These  women  that  were  with  her  ?  the  dark  air  ? 
The  agony,  the  open  sepulchre  ? 
And  whence  the  smell  of  aloes  and  of  myrrh  ? 
Or  napkin,  lying  by  itself  ?  —  and  bright 
And  fair,  again,  as  morn,  those  men  of  light  ? 
What  was  it  that  she  sought  so  eagerly  ? 
And  horror-stricken  feared  that  it  might  be 
Stolen  away  from  her  and  buried  ? 

Now 

Lapt  in  a  lighter  sleep  she  seemed  to  know 
Herself,  and  all  her  grief.     And  as  she  lay 
In  twilight  of  such  slumber,  the  new  day 
Dawned  slowly,  and  a  fair  and  distant  breeze 
Bore  to  her  sleeping  heart  the  happiness 
Of  Easter  bells  ;  the  jubilant,  glad  noise 
Seemed  to  her  in  her  sleep  to  be  an  angel's  voice, 
Who  stood  before  her,  and  spake  to  her  there, 
To  chase  away  her  darkness,  her  despair  : 

"  The  night  is  done  ;  it  is  the  pallid  dawn  ; 
And  resurrected  light  doth  spring  again  ; 
The  darkness  like  a  stone  is  rolled  away, 
And  from  his  Eastern  charnel  damp  with  dew, 
Scattering  our  fears  before  him,  comes  the  day. 


76  A    TALE 

"  Awaken  thou  !  awaken !  and  thy  sleep 

Be  turned  to  joy  ;  there  is  no  cause  to  weep. 

Arise  !  the  sun  hath  risen  in  his  might ; 

Arise  !  the  earth  ariseth  in  delight : 

A  glory  is  gone  o'er  the  Eastern  plain, 

Sleep  is  no  more  :  both  sleep  and  death  are  vain. 

The  Winter  is  no  more,  the  Spring  is  blown  ; 

It  is  the  song  of  birds,  the  Winter  's  gone. 

The  dove  hath  come,  it  is  the  time  of  mirth, 

The  resurrection  of  eternal  earth. 

There  is  no  weeping  more  ;  soft  is  the  air  ; 

No  prayer  be  said  :  —  the  universe  is  prayer  ! 

"  Arise  !  the  world's  salvation  and  thine  own 
Hath  risen ;  He  hath  pushed  aside  the  stone  ; 
The  place  is  open,  and  the  cerements  lie 
Like  the  white  snows  under  a  sunny  sky. 
The  Sun  of  Life  hath  shone  on  death  abhorred, 
And  't  is  the  Resurrection —  'tis  the  Lord !  " 

Mother  of  the  fresh  dead,  she  rose  and  went 
Unto  her  eastern  window,  whence  she  sent 
Her  soul  in  praise  upon  the  morning  air 
To  Him  from  whom,  in  whom,  all  mornings  are. 

And  as  she  cast  her  thoughts  to  heaven  and  looked 

Upon  the  glory  of  new  day,  she  brooked 

Vain  grief  no  more  ;  to  her  it  seemed  the  dead, 

That  on  those  bitter  fields  their  blood  had  shed, 

Innumerably  rose,  and  'neath  the  day 

Passed,  like  a  mighty  wind,  that  blows  away 

The  cloud  and  vapor  of  the  night ;  and  fair 


A    TALE  77 

And  sinless  morning  followed  on  the  air ; 

They  breathed  upon  the  earth,  and  it  was  green, 

And  on  the  soul  of  man,  it  grew  serene  ; 

They  breathed  upon  the  world,  and  strong  and  new 

A  nation  rose,  and  shook  the  bloody  dew, 

The  shadows  from  her  locks,  and  looked  abroad, 

Bathed  in  the  happy  mercy  of  her  God. 

And  as  this  thought  of  sacrifice  upraised 

Her  spirit,  and  calmed,  she  knelt  and  duly  praised : 

"  Lord  of  our  life,  Giver  of  Life  and  Death, 

I,  that  have  lent  my  dear  son  unto  Thee, 

Weep  for  him  not :  I  have  no  sorrow  more  : 

My  sorrow  is  with  him,  he  is  with  Thee." 


CHANGE. 

"  First  Love,  first  youth,  those  tender  things 
Not  had,  but  e'en  themselves  were  wings !  " 

YE  loves  that  visit  me,  I  know  not  how 

I  can  go  back  to  where  I  was  a  child ; 

The  forest  that  I  loved  is  leveled  now, 

The  water  that  I  drank  from  is  defiled  : 

For  men  have  come,  and  all  wild  things  are  fled ; 

Far,  far  away  the  eagle  and  the  fawn ; 

The  stealthy  panther  from  his  thickest  shade 

And  the  green  snake  have  slipt  away  and  gone. 

And  those  who  with  me  slept  beneath  the  boughs, 

And  in  the  forests  green  and  pillared  house 

Loitered,  and  loved  ;  who  'neath  the  pleasant  dew 

Of  eventide  held  converse  sweet  and  gay, — 

Where  are  they  gone  ?  —  Frailty  of  life !  they,  too, 

Are  vanished  into  change  and  slipt  away. 


THOUGHTS. 

LET  me  not  long  be  absent  from  my  thoughts, 
For  they  are  sweeter  than  the  flowers  of  May, 
And  more  at  peace  than  in  green  orchard  spots 
The  voice  of  doves,  soft-heard,  from  far  away. 
And  fresher  are  they  than  the  morning  looks 
When  the  rich  forests  yellow  to  their  fall ; 


THE  AMULET  79 

And  brighter  are  they  than  the  leafless  brooks, 
In  Autumn  sunshine,  and  as  magical. 
But  they  from  me  have  long  divided  been : 
As  woods  that  in  the  Winter  want  their  green, 
So  have  I  stood,  in  e'en  such  barren  trance ! 
'Neath   newer   suns   those  woods  will   green   and 

glance ; 

But  my  dear  thoughts  will  not  return  to  me, 
Till  thou  return'st,  who  art  their  sun  and  day : 
For  all  my  happy  thoughts  are  sprung  from  thee, 
And  without  thee  they  wither  fast  away. 


THE  AMULET. 

INDIFFERENCE  ;  —  at  last 

I  learn  to  smile  away 
The  sights  and  sounds  of  earth, 

The  night,  the  day. 

Life  needs  a  charm : 

Since  I  am  with  her  yet 

I  wile  away  her  harm 
With  this  sad  amulet. 

For  it  is  sad  this  side  the  grave 

To  walk,  as  one  astray, 
Who  yet  doth  neither  care  to  have, 

Nor  to  seek  out  a  way. 


80  IN  FOREIGN  LANDS 

But  I  can  charm  thy  worst  of  things, 
O  restless  Life !  —  regret, 

False  hope  and  hate  and  fear,  — 
With  this  sad  amulet. 


IN   FOREIGN   LANDS. 

THREE  things  I  lack  in  absence  :  first,  to  be 
Where  nature  is,  sleeping  beneath  the  pine. 
The  second  one,  to  have  my  friend  with  me, 
To  feel  him  near  and  know  that  he  is  mine. 
For  it  is  long  since  I  my  friend  have  seen, 
And  longer  still  since  those  first  morning  days 
When  we  together  lived,  since  happy  when, 
My  soul  and  his  have  trodden  diverse  ways. 
And  last  strange  absence,  my  own  heart  is  gone 
Courting  the  favor  of  the  world,  and  I 
Must  wait  her  late  return,  when  wearily 
She  will  come  back  and  we  again  be  one. 
When  thou  return'st,  my  heart,  let  it  be  so, 
—  So  sweet !  —  I  shall  forget  that  thou  didst  go ! 


TO   AN   ACTEESS, 

ON  HKB  IMPERSONATION  OF  MRS.  ELVSTED,  IN  IBSEN'S  PLAY, 
HEDDA  GABLER,  LONDON,  1891. 

THE  play  is  over  now,  and  of  your  pains 

And  pleasure  in  the  part,  say  what  remains  ? 

The  sense  of  something  done,  something  well  done ; 

The  memory  of  happy  work,  begun 

And  ended  happily.     No  more  than  this  ? 

Why,  can  there  be  a  more  ?     Achievement  is 

The  height  of  happiness,  and  memory 

Of  noble  things,  nobly  achieved,  should  be 

A  kind  of  strength  and  state  in  which  we  move, 

A  flattery  which  't  is  our  right  to  love. 

And  you  who  have  done  much  should  know  that 

power, 

Which  is  support  and  guard  in  the  worst  hour ; 
For  our  own  acts  desert  us  not,  but  give 
Perpetual  benedictions,  work  and  live 
In  us  forever,  —  as  these  should  in  you, 
These  many  hours  that  now  seem  all  so  few ! 

But  whatsoe'er  your  memory  should  be 

Of  much  well  done,  and  with  that  much  this  free 

And  noble  portrait,  what  remains  for  me  ? 

Time  is  the  actor's  canvas  ;  —  like  a  dawn 
Your  gentle  hour  is  set  in  time,  quite  gone, 


82  TO  AN  ACTRESS 

'T  would  seem  !  —  For  you  't  is  gone  ;  for  me,  not 

so! 

I  know  a  person  whom  I  did  not  know ; 
I  see  her  still,  to  me  now  more  than  you 
A  being  and  a  life,  —  I  know  of  few 
Living  that  so  much  live !  —  What,  then,  was  she, 
Or  who,  who  hath  the  right  to  almost  more  than  be  ? 

Large  eyes  and  yellow  hair,  a  hesitation 
And  trembling  wish  to  please,  a  frank  elation 
At  pleasure  given ;  the  pathetic  smile, 
Embarrassed  with  itself,  and  those  eyes  full 
Of  tears  that  will  not  stay  where  they  are  bid ; 
And  sorrow  patent  most  where  it  is  hid : 
My  gentle  Thea !  —  With  her  childish  looks, 
Her  innocence  of  life,  her  uncut  books, 
—  I  'm  sure  they  were  uncut !  excepting  those 
Grave  essays  that  she  cut  for  Lovborg's  use, 
And  read  to  him  ;  —  Thea,  affectionate, 
And  filled  with  pity,  but  too  weak  for  fate, 
Too  circumscribed  in  folly,  and  too  slight 
To  wrestle  with  her  lot ;  —  but  loving  much,  — 
This  always  and  this  most ! 

She  showed  as  such, 

When,  —  as  he  told  her,  it  was  over  now, 
Their  work  was  ruined,  that  which  he  had  writ 
Inspired  by  her  was  lost ;  no  shred  of  it 
Remained,  —  't  was  gone !  —  what  of  it  ?  let  it  go ! 
And  they  must  part,  and  she  to  fate  must  bow, 
Be  silent,  break  her  heart  in  to  that  yoke 
Of  unaccustomed  solitude,  —  she  spoke  : 


TO  AN  ACTRESS  83 

"  'T  will  seem  to  me  forever  now  as  you 
Had  killed  a  child  :  was  it  not  my  child,  too  ? 
A  little  child  that  drew  its  breath  through  me  ; 
And  now  !  —  I  care  not  now  where  I  may  be ! 
1  go ;  —  the  way  is  darkness.     Should  I  stay, 
'T  would  in  the  end  be  the  same  darkened  way. 
Oh,  you  have  broken  all  my  life  !  —  I  see 
Before  my  eyes  the  years  —  a  vacancy ! 
Yes,  you  have  killed  our  child ;  —  Lbvborg,  I  go, 
Because  you  bid  me  —  I  —  I  loved  you  so  !  " 

These  were  the  words   she  said :  —  the  audience 

heard, 

Just  as  I  write,  the  sentence,  word  for  word ; 
But  't  was  not  in  the  book,  not  in  the  part, 
But  from  the  purer  volume  of  your  art. 

In  this  dark  picture,  —  can  I  call  it  less  ? 
Where  half  to  folly,  half  to  viciousness 
Incline,  composing  the  sad  human  day,  — 
In  this  dark  atmosphere,  this  sordid  gray, 
Thea  alone  shed  some  faint  beam  of  light, 
By  which  our  moral  eye  might  judge  the  night 
And  shadow  of  the  rest ;  —  true,  faint  enough ! 
But  with  the  grace  that  comes  of  human  love 
And  suffering  unmerited.  —  Adieu, 
Adieu,  to  Thea  and  to  Hedda  too ! 

And  when  the  next  time  you  would  breathe  your 

power 

In  some  imagined  form,  and  for  an  hour 
Image  the  same,  oh,  let  it  be  some  soul 


84  TO  AN  ACTRESS 

Of  dignity  and  worth,  or  good  or  ill, 
A  spirit,  —  human !  —  but  a  spirit  still : 
Sinful  or  erring  !  —  but  a  soul  that  glows 
With  natural  life  !  —  I  tire  of  these  and  those, 
The  fools  of  virtue  and  that  other  clan, 
The  knowing  vicious  ;  —  are  these  all  of  man  ? 


PROLOGUE  TO  AN   AMERICAN   PLAY. 
PRODUCED  BEFOKE  AN  ENGLISH  AUDIENCE,  LONDON,  1892. 

WHEN  travelers  to  their  homes  return,  their  kin 
Gather  about  them  :  —  "  Where  then  did  you  earn 
This  cut,  that  scar  ?  "  —  Then  gravely  they  '11  begin : 

"  It  was  beneath  the  line  of  Capricorn, 

Where  on  a  green  oasis  as  I  slept, 

A  savage  like  a  serpent  on  me  crept ; 

But  chance  proved  my  salvation  in  the  nick 

Of  the  last  moment,  —  chance  most  wonderful !  " 

Then  comes  his  tale,  —  something  too  wonderful ! 

And  on  his  audience'  faces  grows  the  while, 

As  the  tale  grows,  a  disbelieving  smile. 

Our  traveler  notes  it  —  "  Ah,  indeed,  't  was  so !  " 

And  with  a  never-doubt-me  face  cries,  "  Oh, 

You  must  remember  that  across  the  sea, 

In  foreign  lands  and  far  from  this  dear  shore, 

Men,  women,  nay,  the  very  breath  of  heaven, 

Is  of  another  nature." 

And  may  I 

With  some  such  words  unlock  for  you  the  way 
That  leads,  I  hope,  to  pleasure  in  our  play. 


86       PROLOGUE   TO  AN  AMERICAN  PLAY 

For  in  this  land,  far  south,  beneath  the  sun, 

Nature  is  quick  and  violent,  and  man 

Lives  in  his  impulse  more  than  here  he  can, 

And  less  reflectingly.  —  "  Love  ripens  slow," 

You  say,  "  and  anger  has  its  word,  the  blow 

Comes  after ; "  — but  with  them  the  blow  comes  first. 

Love  rushes  to  completion,  as  a  flower 

That  buds  and  bursts  and  blossoms  in  one  hour. 

And  man,  though  now  it  seem  a  fireside  tale, 

Was  there  a  slave,  fed  with  the  crumbs  of  mercy  ; 

Naught  lay  between  the  wrath  of  cruelty 

And  its  poor  object ;  and  the  lightest  breath 

Uttered  'gainst  slavery  was  almost  death 

To  him  who  breathed  it ;  —  for  where  men's  houses 

Are  built  upon  the  avalanche,  they  live 

In  whispers,  and  a  fear  lest  some  loud  voice 

Shock  their  unfounded  stillness  into  ruin. 

But  all  this  must  seem, 

To  you  in  England,  here,  a  strange,  dark  dream ; 
A  cloud  far  off,  not  threatening  to  your  peace, 
Islanded  here  among  your  blessed  seas. 

Yet  if  you  doubt  my  discourse,  and  betray 

Your  doubt  in  smiles,  I  '11  smooth  those  smiles  away, 

Telling  you  that  "  indeed,  across  the  sea, 

In  foreign  lands  and  far  from  this  dear  shore, 

Men,  women,  nay,  the  very  breath  of  heaven, 

Is  of  another  nature." 

And  't  is  even 

This  which  you  now  shall  see  with  your  own  eyes, 
If  I  may  bow,  and  bid  the  curtain  rise. 


LOVE. 

I. 

A  LITTLE  rivulet  flows  down  a  dell, 

A  woody  hollow  where  dark  violets  blow ; 

And  as  it  goes  it  tells  a  faery  tale 

To  vernal  grasses  that  above  it  grow. 

And  once,  with  parted  lips  and  cheek  aglow, 

A  girlish  shadow  on  its  waters  fell ; 

Its  fleeting  waters  did  not  cease  to  flow, 

But  on  the  mirror  of  my  mind  a  spell 

Was  wrought  by  Love,  and  Time  forever  stayed 

In  his  swift  course  :  the  motion  of  his  years 

Eddies  about  that  image  quietly ; 

And  like  a  colored  shadow  't  is  inlaid 

In  the  clear  spirit,  ageless,  with  no  tears, 

No  care,  and  beauteous  as  a  cloud  may  be. 

II. 

I  LOVED  a  fountain  once,  within  a  wood. 
Around  it  stretched  the  forest  dark  and  dim, 
A  pathless  and  perpetual  solitude ; 
Its  silent  waters  glittered  at  the  rim 
They  rippled  out  of,  and  went  singing  downward 
Among  the  giant  pines  that  arched  them  over, 
While  I  pursued  them  on  and  ever  onward, 
For  they  forsook  me  like  a  fickle  lover. 
But  with  the  Winter  and  the  frost  there  fell 


88  LOVE 

A  sluggishness  upon  them,  and  they  slept ; 
And  with  the  Spring  they  would  not  wake,  but  dull 
And  heavy  as  a  dreamer's  feet  they  crept 
From  stone  to  stone,  and  slumbering  would  run 
And  green  and  thicken  'neath  the  Summer  sun. 

in. 

I  SAW  it  not  again  till  after-years 

Had  wrought  their  will  on  me  ;  and  sought  it  then, 

But  with  no  more  of  pleasure  than  inheres 

In  looking  with  new  eyes  on  an  old  scene. 

It  was  quite  clear  again,  and  ran  as  sweetly 

About  my  feet  as  any  stream  might  run  ; 

And  like  a  fawn  fled  through  the  forest  fleetly, 

And  leaped  in  silence  like  a  fleeing  fawn. 

But  I  went  pacing  onward  through  the  wood, 

A  feeble  shadow,  wandering  alone, 

And  brooding  o'er  an  inward  solitude. 

I  could  not  hear,  or  heard  untouched  its  tone 

Of  greeting,  till  I  vanished  like  a  cloud 

Above  the  darkness  of  my  spirit  bowed. 

IV. 

WHEN,  lying  in  false  warmth  of  sleep,  we  seem 
Leafless  no  more,  but  hopeful,  a  green  bough, 
And  flattered  with  the  frailty  of  such  dream, 
We  blossom  into  hope,  and  sweetly  blow ; 
What  misery  't  were,  as  that  light  slumber  nears 
Its  bursting  into  air,  while  we  're  with  bliss 
Laden  as  heavily  as  age  with  years, 
To  start,  to  tremble,  to  awake  from  this ! 
Or,  standing  where  we  stood  upon  a  hill, 


LOVE  89 

And  looking  on  the  home  that  once  we  loved, 

To  hear  an  alien  voice  of  laughter  fill 

Its  halls,  and  echo  wildly,  unreproved  ! 

This  —  but  than  these  more  wounding  !  —  't  is  to  be 

In  this  changed  world  of  time  again  with  thee ! 

V. 

You  bid  me  show  a  gladness,  to  appear 
That  thing  I  am  not  now,  nor  cannot  be. 
Once,  with  the  tardy  opening  of  the  year, 
I  sought  and  found  a  frail  anemone  ; 
Unsheltered  on  a  bank  of  moss  it  grew 
And  sunned  itself,  until  a  bitter  dawn 
Unkindly  kissed  its  cheek  with  Winter  dew, 
And  ere  the  day  it  withered  and  was  gone. 
The  April  warmth  that  wooed  it  from  the  earth 
Had  flattered  with  delight  its  life  away  :  — 
And  in  my  heart  like  frailty  had  its  birth, 
As  pining  beauty,  and  as  swift  decay ; 
For  love  is  such  a  Winter-guiled  flower, 
To  blow  ere  tune,  and  wither  in  an  hour. 

VI. 

MY  mood  is  like  a  frosty,  backward  Spring, 

That  fain  would  see  the  snowdrop,  and  fain  hear 

The  Winter-silent  larks'  sweet  caroling, 

And  the  loud  cuckoo  usher  in  the  year. 

My  days  still  brook  the  Winter,  and  the  frost 

Of  so  long  absence  doth  depart  with  pain  ; 

And  warm  delights,  like  early  sunshine  lost, 

Upon  my  frosty  surface  fall  in  vain. 

More  aged  than  this  earth  I  sometimes  feel, 


90  LOVE 

And  more  in  prison  than  a  prisoner  bound  ; 
More  withered  and  more  fallen  than  the  pale 
And  sodden  leaves  that  lie  on  last  year's  ground ; 
And  though  I  seek  on  every  bough  in  grief, 
I  find  no  token  but  a  fallen  leaf. 

VII. 

AN  exile  from  a  mountain's  barren  top 

Looks  in  the  cloud  below  :  upon  this  hand 

He  sees  his  safety,  —  here  he  can  command 

His  life ;  but  under  yon  dark,  other  slope, 

There  lies  his  heart,  there  would  he  be !  —  Through 

rain 

His  weary  glance  he  throws,  and  in  the  gloom 
And  motion  of  thick  mist  he  seeks  in  vain 
A  faint  and  distant  token  of  his  home. 
Clouds  move  in  clouds,  and  hang  dividingly, 
And  on  his  forehead  weep  a  mournful  dew ; 
He  watcheth,  and  in  still  anxiety 
His  hopes  and  fears  their  rival  course  pursue, 
Lest  what  he  first  have  loved  be  fallen  prone, 
And  roof  and  rafter  lie  with  grass  o'ergrown. 

VIII. 

Bur  as  he  makes  his  eager  inquest  there, 
The  vapors  rise,  and  scatter,  and  are  broken ; 
And  from  the  vale  below  the  breezes  bear 
A  sound  as  if  a  distant  word  were  spoken ; 
The  plain  of  the  green  earth  doth  sparkle  fair, 
And  at  his  feet  he  sees  his  home,  —  how  small ! 
How  like  a  picture  in  the  glittering  air  ! 
The  grove,  the  grass,  the  slender  waterfall. 


LOVE  91 

Heaven  smiles  upon  him  there  ;  —  his  wish  is  won ! 

—  And  I,  when  I  behold  thy  face,  forget 

The  sea  of  danger  and  the  Winter  sun, 

The  wasting  years  and  all  the  clouds  that  yet 

Exile  me  from  my  hope,  and  only  see 

The  paradise  I  forfeited  in  thee. 

IX. 

WHEN  from  his  height  the  stricken  eagle  falls, 
Beating  the  air  with  one  vain,  mighty  wing, 
And  vexing  the  wide  heaven  with  his  calls, 
Until  at  last  the  far-sunk  forest  spring 
Upward  to  meet  him  in  his  fall !  —  so  swift 
That  body  in  its  circling,  sad  descent ! 
Then  doth  upon  the  wind  a  bright  rain  drift, 
Heavy  and  hot,  and  stains  the  innocent 
And  tender  blade  of  grass ;  while,  like  a  bolt, 
Helpless  and  hurtling  through  the  branched  roof, 
He  sinks  forever  in  a  vain  revolt 
Against  his  weakness  ;  —  faint  and  far  aloof 
Runs  the  wild  roe  ;  —  and  as  the  thunder  blast 
The  monarch  of  the  winds  to  earth  is  cast. 

x. 

THEN,  with  one  outstretched  pinion  trailing  prone, 
Debased  beneath  the  laurel  he  doth  lie, 
Silent  and  still ;  returning  roe  and  fawn 
Startle  when  they  behold  that  watchful  eye. 
He  lies  in  grief  :  his  power  is  from  him  gone, 
And  Nature,  healing  all  things,  heals  not  him. 
Vain  patience  !  —  for  the  splendor  of  the  dawn 
Shall  gild  his  flight  no  more  with  pallid  beam. 


92  LOVE 

And  what  he  there  may  suffer  well  I  know, 

Who  from  the  heaven  of  heavens  have  been  cast 

down 

To  grovel  on  the  earth,  —  a  fatal  blow  ! 
Whence  with  an  upward  glance  I  gaze  upon 
The  sun  and  sky,  and  know  that  now  I  must 
Cower  on  the  earth  and  crawl  about  the  dust. 

XI. 

I  HAVE  no  heart,  now  more,  but  sick  to  death 

Of  this  disgustful  life  am  I  so  grown, 

I  hate  what  I  should  love,  my  own  sad  breath ; 

My  heart  within  me  seemeth  scarce  my  own, 

So  heavy  't  is  —  oh,  heavy  as  a  stone ! 

Heavy  as  sleep  !  or  as  yon  pendent  bough 

Of  the  pine,  thick  -  weighted   with   the  Winter's 

snow  ; 

But  that  if  winds  are  rudely  'gainst  it  blown, 
Will  shatter,  and  fall  to  earth ! 

Where  hope  is  none, 

Patience  is  there  a  god  :  Time  that  doth  bring 
Help  to  the  helpless  ;  to  the  broken  wing 
Healing ;  to  all  who  suffer  'neath  the  sun, 
At  last,  howe'er  delayed,  the  great  release, 
The  final  balm,  the  everlasting  peace. 


FALSE  LOVE 


FALSE    LOVE. 

As  leaves  in  Autumn  withered  are, 
And  strew  themselves  upon  the  air, 
And  by  the  winds  are  borne  afar, 

As  if  they  flattered  were 
To  sail  so  high,  and  not  to  be 
Bound  fast  on  any  bough  or  tree  : 

So  were  my  loves  when  first  I  could 

Forget  how  only  unto  thee 

They  grew  and  sweetly  flourished, 

And  less  were  part  of  me 
Than  blossoms  of  thy  gentle  mind, 
That  now  are  borne  on  every  wind. 

They  scatter  here  and  wander  there, 
And  waste  their  freshness  far  away ; 
They  fill  a  cold  and  icy  air, 

And  with  the  Winter  play ; 
They  yellow  earth  —  and  yet,  and  yet 
Cannot  their  bared  bough  forget. 


94  PEACE 


PEACE. 

WHEN  lovers  meet  again, 
Then  obscure  ways  grow  plain  ; 
Then  crooked  paths  are  straight 
And  the  rough  places  smooth ; 
Then  weariness  and  weight 
Have  wings  as  wide  as  love. 
For  the  night  is  as  the  day  ; 
Love  smiles  love's  tears  away ; 
And  all  hard  paths  are  plain 
When  lovers  meet  again. 

When  lovers  kiss  again, 
The  dry  bough  blossoms  then  ; 
Then  rolls  away  the  stone  ; 
Earth's  bitterness  is  balm  ; 
Light  through  the  night  is  blown ; 
Peace  rocks  the  world  in  calm ; 
And  the  ebbing  tide  is  full ; 
For  two  souls  are  one  soul, 
And  obscure  ways  grow  plain, 
When  lovers  meet  again. 


DELIGHT  95 


DELIGHT. 

DEEP  in  my  heart  there  lay- 
Delight,  asleep  all  day ; 
Sweet,  silent  thoughts  of  thee. 
But  the  night  that  awakeneth 
The  lily  with  her  breath 
Hath  awakened  those  thoughts  in  me. 

The  eternal  stars  now  wreathe 
Their  dance  of  light  beneath 
The  night,  and  breathe  their  balm. 
My  deep  heart  is  the  skies 
Whence  holy  thoughts  arise, 
Making  a  holy  calm. 

Ah,  'neath  my  quiet  soul, 

As  'neath  heaven's  moon  at  full, 

Swell  the  deep  tides  of  love ; 

The  unseen  currents  flow 

To  magic  shores,  winds  blow, 

The  waters  breathe  and  move. 

Sleep  to  the  night  and  me  ! 
Divinest  thoughts  of  thee 
Throw  on  my  soul  from  far 
The  spirit  of  their  light, 
As  pure  stars  in  the  night 
Look  where  still  waters  are. 


96  A   SOUTHERN  NIGHT 

Sleep  to  the  night  and  me ! 
The  stars  look  on  the  sea, 
And  the  wave  is  filled  with  fire  ; 
And  my  soul  is  filled  with  thee, 
My  heart  is  faint  in  me, 
And  my  breath  is  a  desire. 


A   SOUTHERN  NIGHT. 

THE  day,  like  one  beloved,  hath  gently  said 
Farewell,  and  veils  with  dusk  her  cheeks'  rich  glow ; 
Her  rosy  kisses  from  the  clouds  are  fled, 
And  golden  stars  bathe  in  the  lake  below. 
The  waters  breathe ;  the  mists  arise  and  sweep 
The  world  with  wonder,  and  star-lit  they  move 
Even  like  my  thoughts  to  yon  faint  shore,  where 

sleep 

The  lily  and  rose,  where  sleeps  my  restful  love. 
Sleep  thou !     I  wake :  and  all  the  world  is  well ! 
From  hour  to  hour  the  ripple  laps  the  stone 
Of  stately  marble  steps  beneath  the  moon, 
And  her  most  mighty  orb  in  heaven  doth  dwell. 
The  night  is  wide  and  warm,  and  my  heart  free  ; 
My  eyes  light  and  my  breath  quick  with  thoughts 

of  thee. 


TO  A  WRITER  OF  THE  DAY, 

ON  HIS  ALLOWING  HIMSELF  TO  DISAPPOINT  THE  HOPES  RAISED 
BY  HIS  EARLIER  WORK. 

WHERE  are  you  gone,  my  friend  ?     I  had  a  look, 
No  brief  one,  through  the  pages  of  your  book, 
But  scarcely  found  you  there ;  or  found  you  not 
As  I  should  wish :  —  where  are  you  in  your  thought  ? 
We  who  have  lived  together  know  each  other, 
Once  and  for  all  as  brother  does  a  brother ; 
But  the  years  flow :  man  with  them  ;  and  "  we  fare 
To  different  ports,"  you  say,  "  and  each  must  dare 
His  different  course."    Yet  are  we  men,  are  friends, 
Lovers  of  good,  and  servers  of  high  ends 
Accounted  as  we  serve  ;  —  where  are  you  gone, 
Therefore,  in  life  and  verse  ?     The  rosy  sun 
Of  your  first  morning  thought,  the  dewy  hour 
Of  youth,  hath  risen  and  passed  into  the  power 
And  light  of  day  ;  —  what  is  that  day,  then  ?    Will 
The  height  and  glory  of  its  noon  fulfill 
Our  liberal  expectations  ? 

Reading  over 

Your  verses,  (and  I  read  them  like  a  lover, 
Prepared  to  worship  without  rhyme  or  reason,) 
Yet,  reading  to  adore,  and  at  this  season, 
Too,  when  blossoms  are  abroad,  and  Poetry 
Is  in  the  air  and  to  the  mind  all  free, 


98  TO  A    WRITER    OF  THE  DAY 

And  pleasant  thoughts  are  welcomest,  —  for  May 
Has  smiled  ungenerous  and  cold  things  away, 
And  sweet  ideas  come  dancing,  as  the  blood 
Within  us  leaps  and  laughs  for  the  world's  good  ; 
—  Yet,  though  it  be  both  May  and  youth,  I  found 
Somehow  I  was  not  satisfied.     The  sound 
Was  musical,  of  course :  your  current  flows 
Easily  down  ;  your  harshest  poem  goes 
Unhindered  on  its  course  ;  but  somehow,  still, 
I  had  not  touched  you,  had  not  got  my  fill, 
And,  to  be  plain,  felt  cheated,  and  was  cross. 

And  now,  as  I  begin  to  pitch  and  toss 
The  thing  about  my  mind,  I  think  I  see 
How  matters  are  with  you : 

You  are  not  free  : 

Not  free  enough.     I  feel  that  you  respect 
Some  certain  criticasters,  and  reject 
Them  not  with  scorn ;  who,  having  told  you  how 
Your  business  is  with  "  words,"  have  made  it  now, 
Perhaps,  too  late :  —  like  others  you  are  caught 
And  tangled  in  their  web,  their  mist  of  thought. 
And  looser  thinking,  more  at  second-hand, 
With  less  of  body,  more  like  ropes  of  sand, 
More  incoherent,  dead  and  without  hope, 
Has  never  yet  been  plausibly  made  up 
Into  the  likeness  of  true  thing  !     For  I 
Have  read  these  fellows,  too,  and  candidly 
I  will  assure  you  that  a  dock,  a  thistle, 
Has  more  of  nutriment !  —  'T  were  better  whistle 
In  sunshine  half  a  day,  enjoying  it, 


"• 


TO  A    WRITER   OF  THE  DAY  99 

Than  to  benight  one's  brains  with  reading  what  is 

writ 

By  all  that  barren  tribe,  who  blindly  dwell 
In  desert  places  hopeless  !  and  no  well 
Of  life  in  all  whose  dry  and  withered  nation, 
Save  one  apt  spring,  —  their  fountain  of  quota 
tion. 

For,  as  you  Ve  heard,  great  critics  are  as  rare 
As  those  they  most  indebt,  great  poets,  are. 
And  though  't  would  seem  a  harmless  trade  to  suit 
The  time's  demands  to  your  just  needs,  and  put 
A  dollar  in  your  pocket,  all  by  clatter 
About  a  good  thing,  yet 't  is  no  such  matter, 
Unless  what 's  said,  is  so  ;  —  for  those,  no  doubt, 
Who  have  no  better  thing  to  be  about, 
It  is  a  harmless  calling ;  but  it  goes 
Deeper  than  that,  —  how  deep  no  wisdom  knows  ! 
For  these  men  deal  with  living  things,  with  art, 
With  hope  and  youth,  with  energy  of  heart, 
And  with  high  aims,  with  truth  and  liberty  ; 
And  there  's  the  spot  they  rub  :  —  they  take  away 
Men's  freedom  ;  they  create  an  atmosphere 
Jaded  and  difficult,  and  far  and  near 
There  settles  down  a  dust  of  pedant  kind 
Where  their  words  fall,  an  influence  to  bind 
And  lock  up  every  generous  power,  to  do, 
As  now,  in  fact,  I  think  they  've  done  to  you. 

For  have  you  not  perused  these  wise,  and  then 

Thought  of  alliteration  ;  or  how  "  rain  " 

Should  rhyme  with  this,  not  that ;  or  how  an  "  L," 


100  TO  A   WRITER   OF  THE  DAY 

A  dextrously  placed  dissyllable, 

Or  a  rich  "  mood  "  of  "  M's,"  or  what  not  more, 

Contains  the  secret  of  "  poetic  lore ;  "  — 

How  poets  use  their  consonants,  and  all 

The  rest  that  makes  this  life  seem  flat  and  dull, 

The  green  world  gray,  and  verse  a  horrid  grief 

Even  to  read,  —  to  write  it,  past  belief  ? 

Have  you  not  added  then,  "  At  least  I  '11  be 

Perfect  in  '  Form '  and  ripe  in  '  Melody  ; ' 

Whate'er  my  limbs  of  thought,  the  outside  dress 

Shall  be  a  splendor ;  I  '11  be  covetous 

Of   *  rich  '    and   '  perfumed  '    words  ;   when  sweet 

thoughts  fail, 

I  '11  weave  a  glittering,  a  melodious  veil 
Of  phrases  that  shall  seem  like  thought,  but  be, 
Instead,  pure  beauty,  pure  delight  "  ?  —  Dear  me  ! 
How  well  I  know  all  that !     And  how  I  hate 
The  burden  of  the  folly  of  that  state 
Of  imbecile,  blank  mind  !  —  You  should  not  think 
In  these  men's  bastard  terms  ;  you  should  not  drink 
The  cup  of  their  damnation  ;  much  less  be 
Seduced  and  drawn  away  from  liberty, 
From  all  good  sense  cut  off,  by  doctrine  such 
As  will  not  bear  the  light :  —  folly,  that  touch 
Of  clearer  thinking  kills  !    Could  I  but  scour 
Your  mind  of  such  loose  shadows !  —  You  've  the 

power, 

The  imagination,  and  the  heart  to  do 
What  these  men  falsely  talk  of ;  and  yet  you 
Are  sterilized  by  them,  enfeebled,  made 
Into  a  kind  of  eunuch,  or  a  shade 
Of  what 's  poetic. 


TO  A   WRITER   OF  THE  DAY  101 

Could  but  this  be  brought 
Into  your  ken,  —  that  the  technique  is  thought. 
Escape  from  "  Style,"  the  notion  men  can  use 
Words  without  thoughts  ;  so  wrench  and  so  abuse 
The  innocent  language  to  their  ends  that  they 
Will  seem  to  be  respectful,  honest,  gay, 
Grave,  or  what  else  ;  and  all  the  glorious  while 
The  authors  'selves  sit  with  the  wise  and  smile : 
"  'T  is  but  a  trick ;  't  is  words  ;  it  is  a  style  !  " 

Your  technique,  then,  is  thought,  just  as  I  say. 
And  if  you  '11  write  a  poem,  there  's  no  way 
But  first  to  think  it  clearly  ;  pin  your  mind 
Upon  your  thought ;  fasten  it  there,  and  bind 
The  thought  into  your  heart :  when  your  veins  burn 

and  flow 

With  love  or  hate,  the  thoughts  to  music  go, 
Melt  into  music,  and  pour  fully  out 
In  a  rich  flood ;  —  but  to  take  thought  about 
The  "  music  "  of  your  words,  't  is  matter  quite 
Beyond  your  conscious  power !  For  rhymes,  they're 

right 

Or  wrong  according  as  they  hear,  not  look 
When  printed  by  a  printer  in  a  book ! 
And  their  "  correctness  "  may  be  measured  best, 
And  indeed  only,  by  a  certain  test,  — 
That,  namely,  for  rebellions  :  which  are  so 
Until  they  have  succeeded,  when  they  go 
By  quite  another  name.     Forget  not,  too, 
That  every  English  poet  known  to  you, 
That  is  to  say  all  of  them,  rhymed  just  as 
The  spirit  took  them  and  their  pleasure  was, 


102  TO  A   WRITER   OF  THE  DAY 

And  masters  that  they  were,  rhymed  "  falsely,"  so 
As  now  no  poetaster  dares  to  do  ! 

But  I  've  more  serious  things  to  say,  and  am 

But  half  concluded  :  whence  is  come  your  calm  ? 

This  hothouse  stillness  ?  this  so  much  of  ease  ? 

Eternity  of  zephyr  ? —  such  fat  peace  ! 

This  dancing,  quick,  inconstant,  frivolous, 

Light  mind  and  thought  ?  —  You  polish  and  caress 

A  little  set  of  words,  plant  one  rare  flower 

And  tend  it  every  day  and  every  hour 

With  needless,  pretty  care ;  while  that  domain, 

The  full  and  fertile  region  of  your  brain, 

Lies  fallow,  empty,  dead  !     Is  it  not  so  ? 

Or  wherein  do  I  err  ?  —  I  would  that  you 

Would  till  that  sleeping  soil,  not  let  it  lie. 

You  think  I  ask  for  politics  ?  —  Not  I ! 

I  ask  for  nothing  critical ;  no  scheme, 

No  theory  of  the  universe ;  no  dream 

Of  sensual  millenniums  ;  —  you  may  be 

Whatever  thing  you  will,  and  yet  please  me, 

So  that  you  are  yourself.     I  do  not  want 

A  poet  to  be  modern,  militant, 

And  moral ;  conscious  of  himself,  and  filled 

With  sense  of   some   grave  message ;   for  what 's 

willed 

Too  powerfully  is  weak,  and  he  may  tell 
A  simple  story,  so  he  do  it  well. 

But  what  I  ask  of  you  is  that  you  be 
Wholly  yourself  ;  —  you  give  me  poetry 
As  if  it  were  a  little  dew,  which  I 


TO  A   WRITER   OF  THE  DAY  103 

Could  delicately  sip,  and  satisfy 

My  soul's  thirst  with  it ;  —  if  you  gave  me  seas 

Of  such  small  talk  in  verse,  they  'd  not  appease 

The  lust  I  have  for  something  large  and  deep. 

Why,  what 's  a  nap  when  a  man  's  dead  with  sleep  ? 

A  single  pea,  served  to  perfection,  's  food, 

But  starving  men  want  more  :  —  and  I,  a  flood, 

A  storm  of  happy  thoughts.  —  Poets  should  be 

At  flood,  in  blossom,  bearing,  continually  ! 

Observe  I  do  not  ask  you  to  be  more 

Than  Nature  made  you ;  I  but  bid  you  pour 

Yourself  out  with  a  liberal  hand,  and  I 

Shall  find  enough  in  you  to  satisfy. 

So  then,  at  last,  let  me  awake  this  sleep 
And  languor  of  yourself  ;  —  it  is  too  deep  ; 
And  't  is  too  long  ! 

Oh,  I  would  have  you  look 
With  judgment  on  your  life,  and  not  to  brook 
The  less  in  art,  as  not  in  truth  ;  —  forgive 
Much  in  you  now  I  can,  never  that  you  less  live. 
I  may  put  by  whatever  choice  of  themes, 
But  not  this  air  of  being  by  rich  dreams 
Hoofed  over,  and  floored  under,  and  walled  in. 
As  Eastern  princes  in  a  palanquin 
Luxuriously  ride,  by  eunuchs  round 
Held  and  supported,  lifted  from  the  ground, 
And  softly  borne,  —  so  you,   on  the  mild  shoul 
ders, 

Effeminate,  of  dreams !  —  Your  spirit  moulders  ; 
The  freshness  of  your  soul  withers  away 
As  roses  do  that  cannot  find  the  day. 


104  TO  A   WRITER   OF  THE  DAY 

Oh,  free  yourself !  —  take  up  your  life  and  share 

The  splendor  of  this  day,  the  world's  great  air, 

And  this  new  land's  delight :  this  land  that  we 

Adore,  this  people,  this  great  liberty 

Of  nations  in  new  birth ;  —  a  happy  shower 

Of  golden  States,  —  a  many-blossomed  flower !  — 

Now  grown  a  Commonwealth,  whose  strength  and 

state 

And  health  are  dangerous  to  all  that  hate 
Freedom  ;  and  fatal  to  all  those  who  'd  be 
Sunk  in  the  dark  of  Time's  abysmal  sea, 
Safe   anchored   in   the  past  —  safe   dead !  —  that 

none 
Might  longer  make  them  fear  a  change  beneath  the 

sun, 

To  fright  them  with  new  good.  —  But  oh,  to  those 
Whose  blood  within   them  leaps  and   laughs  and 

flows; 

To  all  who  proudly  hope ;  to  all  who  fain 
With  their   right  hands  and  with  their  heart  and 

brain 
Would   throne   the  right,  and   make  the  good  to 

reign; 

To  all  who  'd  lift  man  up,  and  who,  heart-free, 
Haste  toward  the  light,  —  this  Land   and  State 

should  be 

Dear  as  their  life  !  —  And  to  her  sons  should  she 
Be  born  again  in  love,  since  with  her  noblest  blood 
And  her  right  hand  of  youth  she  smote  the  brood 
Of  her  own  loins,  nested  in  servitude, 
Shadowing  the  world's  detraction  with  fair  peace. 
Dear  mother  of  her  sons,  whose  wealth  is  these, 


TO  A    WRITER   OF  THE  DAY  105 

Her  more  than  gold,  their  valor,  mercy,  truth, 

Her  mighty  age,  immortal  in  their  youth, 

Dear  light  of  hope,  oh,  needs  she  not  to  be 

Forever  saved  into  new  liberty  ? 

The  fallen  blood  of  martyrs  is  in  vain 

If  ours  be  not  as  free  to  fall  again ! 

But  her  salvation  is  a  rigorous  task, 

Eternally  accomplishing  :  —  I  ask 

You,  therefore,  as  one  owing  more  than  most 

To  her,  who  is  your  happiness  and  boast, 

That  you  cast  from  you  all  that  will  not  wake 

Men's  hearts  from  sensual  sleep :  —  for  her  great 

sake 

Put  by  the  velvet  touch,  the  easy  grace, 
The  fingers  dreaming  on  the  lyre,  the  face 
Forgetful,  listening  to  light  melodies  ; 
Cease  thou  thy  toying  with  the  hours,  and  cease 
This  riot  of  thy  youth,  this  wantoning 
With  all  the  sap  and  spirit  of  thy  Spring. 
Not  twice  that  verdure  's  given  thee ;  the  Tree 
Of  Life  not  twice  shall  blossom  ;  and  to  be 
Young,  't  is  to  be  in  heaven,  't  is  to  be 
Full  of  ambition,  filled  with  hot  desire, 
Pregnant  with  life,  and  steeped  in  such  a  fire 
As  sets  a  world  in  hope  !  —  Oh,  could  I  say 
That  which  I  would,  you  could  not  say  me  nay. 
But  let  your  country  plead  with  you  ;  give  heed 
To  her  dumb  call ;    sow  the  eternal  seed 
Of  Truth,  and  Righteousness,  and  Love  ;  —  though 

you 

Shall  be,  as  poets  should,  known  to  but  few, 
Yet  your  reward  is  great :  it  is  to  be 


106  TO  A   WRITER   OF  THE  DAY 

Sown  in  the  hearts  of  men,  to  make  men  free  ; 
And  in  your  thoughts  to  be  your  land's  firm  stay, 
And  her  salvation  in  a  falling  day, 
More  than  dread  cannon,  than   bright  thousands 

more: 
For  thoughts,  like  angels,  wage  eternal  war. 


DAVID. 

I  WAS  a  pebble  in  the  valley  brook, 
Until  the  shepherd  left  his  fleecy  flocks ; 

When  that  Philistine  boar  from  covert  broke, 
And  'neath  the  eye  of  Israel  shook  his  locks. 

The  waters  ran  and  rippled  o'er  the  sand, 
And  with  a  fleeting  motion  fast  they  flowed ; 

Cold  was  my  dwelling-place  until  that  hand 
Chose  me  to  be  a  witness  to  his  God. 

Fair  was  the  youth,  and  ruddy  was  his  face ! 
Fair  was  the  youth,  his  eyes  like  morning  clear ; 

And  like  a  star  his  comely  forehead  was, 
And  comely  was  the  darkness  of  his  hair. 

Dread  was  the  form  that  'gainst  the  chosen  came  ! 
His  cuirass  glistered,  terribly  he  trod  ; 

Dreadful  his  form,  his  countenance  was  flame, 
And  haughty  and  uplifted  was  his  head. 

Dark  as  a  hurrying  cloud  his  host  before 
Gath  ran,  behind  him  as  the  tempest  they ; 


108  DA  VID 

And  far  across  the  plain  their  sullen  roar 
Sounded  the  hope  and  horror  of  the  fray. 

But  while  Philistia's  jeerings  thundered  loud, 
The  beauty  of  the  Lord  upon  him  grew ; 

A  little  he  his  stately  forehead  bowed, 
A  little  flushed  and  vermeilled  in  his  hue. 

Then  straight  against  that  glittering,  sensual  thing 
His  arm  he  raised,  and  mightily  he  cast : 

I  sped  unseen,  I  left  the  leathern  sling, 

I  broke  the  bone,  and  to  his  brain  I  passed. 

He  sank  as  waters  sink  upon  the  sea, 
A  mighty  body,  downward  as  the  wave ; 

He  clashed  like  brass,  he  fell  all  drunkenly, 
And  with  his  proud  feet  did  he  spurn  the  grave. 

Then  from  the  gorgeous  trunk  his  hated  head, 
His  bestial  face,  was  sundered  and  did  fall ; 

But  like  the  wind  Philistia's  warriors  fled, 
Nor  loitered  on  their  way  till  Ekron's  wall. 

Dropt  from  his  stony  temples  I  remain, 
While  Jew  and  Gentile  pass  to  their  decay : 

What  shepherd  now  shall  cast  me  forth,  again 
To  smite  the  impotence  of  sensual  clay  ! 


THE  JOURNEY. 

"  With  joyful  feet  I  journey  on, 
Singing  the  miles  away." 

I. 
UNREST. 

Two  lived  together  in  one  place, 
And  lived  as  one  ;  a  gentle  home 
Where  either  welcomed  either  come 
Happily  back  with  fervent  face. 

One  sweet  and  pure  and  wise,  and  one 
Unsteady  in  the  strength  of  youth  ; 
But  both  the  servants  of  the  truth, 
Life's  perfect  May  in  both  begun. 

This  is  the  house  :  —  its  roof  above 
The  linden-loving,  unseen  bees 
Murmur  ;  —  it  is  a  house  of  peace  ; 
In  the  green  orchard  cooes  the  dove. 

The  apples  ripen  on  the  bough, 
Unplucked;  across  the  window-sill 
Wild  roses  clamber  where  they  will ; 
The  threshold  is  moss-covered  now. 


110  THE  JOURNEY 

All  seems  to  sleep :  the  shutters  bowed, 
The  door  made  fast,  the  rooms  within 
All  darkness,  and  outside  the  green, 
Still  lawn,  and  this  deserted  road. 

All 's  quiet,  yes  ;  —  and  quietly 
I  turn  my  steps  away :  for  one 
There  is  no  rest  beneath  the  sun ; 
The  other  is  at  rest  and  free. 


n. 


THE  JOURNEY   BEGUN. 

THE  heavenly  morn  is  calm  and  still, 

The  level  waters  gray  ; 
The  sheep-bells  tinkle  on  the  hill 

Faintly  and  far  away. 

The  rising  dew  doth  rosy  glow 
Through  silent  deeps  of  air ; 

Night  sleeps  in  yon  dim  vale  below, 
And  man  doth  slumber  there. 

All,  all  is  still :  the  earth,  the  air, 

The  sky  as  mute  can  be ; 
The  morning  on  the  mountain  side, 

My  quiet  heart  in  me. 

The  sun  looks  up,  and  far  away 
The  dark  pines  murmur  low  ; 

And  like  the  breathing  of  the  day 
A  lightest  breeze  doth  blow. 


THE  JOURNEY  111 

O  happy  earth !     O  blissful  dawn  ! 

Prosper  to  perfect  day ! 
With  joyful  feet  I  journey  on, 

Singing  the  miles  away. 

in. 

THE   MILL. 

THERE  is  a  little,  lonesome  mill, 
About  it  runs  a  lonely  race ; 
Still  and  green  is  all  the  place, 
The  woods  that  hide  it  green  and  still. 

And  every  eve  above  the  mill 
A  little  star  comes  out  in  the  sky : 
"  Where  is  the  miller  and  his  boy  ?  " 
The  reeds  in  the  long  race  bend  and  sigh : 

"  The  miller  long  since  hath  gone  to  the  war, 
The  miller  and  his  rosy  son  ; 
He  left  his  mill  to  the  evening  star, 
Till,  with  the  morning,  he  return." 


IV. 


AUTUMN. 

THE  hill  is  yellow,  the  sky  is  blue, 

The  Autumn  woods  wear  all  one  hue, 

A  leafless  gray,  and  the  fields  are  bare ; 

The  great  fresh  fields  all  ploughed  and  brown, 

How  motherly  they  look,  each  one 

Lying  so  rich  and  silent  in  the  sun, 


112  THE  JOURNEY 

Exposed  like  sun-burnt  bosoms  to  the  air ! 
And  all  about  the  Autumn  swallows  fly, 
And  chirp  and  twitter  in  the  windy  sky. 

v. 

WINTER. 

THE  Winter  mists  are  on  the  hill ; 
The  grass  is  withered,  dry,  and  gray ; 
And  the  air  is  still 
In  the  morning  of  the  day. 

Overhead  the  clouds  are  white 
And  slow  ;  the  frozen  earth  is  dead  ; 
Chilly  and  light 
The  first  flakes  from  above  are  shed. 

Ere  the  twilight  they  will  be 

Thick  in  air ;  —  to-morrow's  light 

Shall  look  forth  and  see 

The  round  world  glittering  cold  and  white. 

VI. 
THE   RUINED    HOUSE. 

THE  sky  is  bleak ;  a  wintry  breeze 
Withers  the  grass  down  to  its  root ; 
The  wayward  rivulet  doth  freeze  ; 
The  river  glances  and  is  mute. 

The  moon  is  white  as  steel  above  ; 
The  crystal  flakelets  of  the  dew 


THE  JOURNEY  113 

Cling  to  the  bare  weeds  ;  the  trees  move 
And  glitter  when  the  loud  winds  blow. 

And  yonder  on  the  bare  hilltop 

A  house  doth  stand,  alone  and  white ; 

A  high  and  solitary  shape, 

That  blazes  in  the  cold  moonlight. 

A  ruined  house ;  —  the  woods  below 
Rock  in  the  wind,  and  tree  to  tree 
Roars  ;  but  on  high  the  cold  winds  blow 
Through  the  keen  brilliance  silently. 

At  intervals  a  loud,  rude  cry 

Lives,  when  the  wind  doth  change  his  mood : 

A  shutter's  flap  —  with  no  reply 

But  noon  of  night  and  solitude. 


VII. 


SPRING. 

THE  sky  is  clearing,  the  rain  is  gone, 

In  damp,  dark  nooks  young  flowers  are  blown ; 

The  brooks  run  noisily  far  away  ; 

From  field  and  furrow,  all  brown  and  bare, 

Earth  breathes  a  spirit  into  the  air  ; 

And  in  the  green  meadows  the  young  lambs  play. 

The  rain  doth  vanish  o'er  yonder  hill ; 

The  forests  glitter,  the  wind  is  still ; 

The  bright  dew  falls  from  the  bared  bough  ; 


114  THE  JOURNEY 

The  wild  bees  murmur,  the  air  is  sweet, 
The  soft,  green  leaves  unfold  in  the  heat, 
My  heart  is  in  heaven  now  ! 

VIII. 
THE   FINAL   VOICE. 

THROUGH  this  green  vale 
The  waters  ripple  fleetly  down ; 
The  light  upon  the  pine  grows  pale 
And  high  ;  twilight  falls  soon. 

How  huge  are  grown 

The  hills,  and  darker  each  green  side, 

Now  silent,  save  the  tone 

Of  this  all  peaceful  tide. 

At  the  pine's  feet 
Dancingly  the  light  ripple  flees, 
And  sings,  with  voice  as  sweet 
As  love,  its  song  of  peace. 

And  from  that  height 

A  murmur  falls,  a  voice  that  seems 

The  spirit  of  the  night 

When  darkness  sleeps  and  dreams  ; 

A  voice  that  calls 

The  soul  —  bidding  it  slight  the  grave 
And  time  and  weakness  —  falls 
And  mingles  with  the  wave. 


THE  JOURNEY  115 


IX. 

THE   JOURNEY   ENDED. 

THE  sun  sinks  down  the  west ; 
The  swallow  seeks  her  nest ; 
The  brook  doth  louder  flow, 
And  I  must  homeward  go. 

Earth  now  to  heaven  draws  nigh ; 
The  green  and  quiet  sky 
Is  full  of  dew ;  and  hill, 
Meadow,  and  wood  are  still. 

The  child  is  long  at  rest 
Upon  its  mother's  breast ; 
The  herd  beneath  the  tree  ; 
My  quiet  heart  in  me. 

I  follow  the  green  lane ; 
I  ope  the  gate  again  ; 
I  knock  :  —  a  voice  serene 
Saith,  Enter,  enter  in  I 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


PAGE 

A  little  Lady  in  a  story  old 18 

A  little  rivulet  flows  down  a  dell 87 

An  apple-tree  that  grows  beside  a  road 13 

An  exile  from  a  mountain's  barren  top 90 

As  leaves  in  Autumn  withered  are 93 

As  nigh  a  little  group  of  flowers  I  knelt 28 

As  the  first  beams  of  morning  faintly  wooed 1 

But  as  he  makes  his  eager  inquest  there 90 

Cold  is  the  air 15 

Deep  in  my  heart  there  lay 95 

How  pale  the  shadows  of  the  leafless  trees 36 

I  dreamed  I  came  to  my  old  nurse  again 25 

I  had  a  comrade  that  have  none 5 

I  had  a  friend,  but  she  is  gone  from  me 27 

I  have  no  heart,  now  more,  but  sick  to  death 92 

I  heard  at  dewy  morn  two  upland  plover 26 

I  hear  the  feet 34 

I  loved  a  fountain  once  within  a  wood 87 

I  love  you,  dear,  and  since  you  ask 38 

Indifference  ;  —  at  last 79 

I  saw  it  not  again  till  after-years 88 

It  is  the  May,  the  Winter 's  gone 7 

I  walked  into  a  little  wood 14 

I  wandered  through  the  orchard  and  the  wood 25 

I  was  a  pebble  in  the  valley  brook       107 

I  would  that  I  could  do  such  things  for  you 26 

Let  me  not  long  be  absent  from  my  thoughts 78 

My  mood  is  like  a  frosty,  backward  Spring 89 

Now  the  spring  like  a  green  flood 37 


118  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES 

Once  as  Peter,  James,  and  John 9 

Pale  leaf,  so  withered  and  so  wan 8 

Sleep,  darling,  sleep 34 

Sometimes  in  a  great  wind  a  lull  occurs 29 

The  day,  like  one  beloved,  hath  gently  said 96 

The  heavenly  morn  is  calm  and  still 110 

The  hill  is  yellow,  the  sky  is  blue Ill 

The  night  hath  passed  upon  me  wearily 22 

Then,  with  one  outstretched  pinion  trailing  prone      ....     91 

The  play  is  over  now,  and  of  your  pains 81 

There  is  a  little,  lonesome  mill Ill 

There  is  an  old  town  by  the  sea 41 

There  lies  a  village  on  a  northern  hill 46 

There  was  a  King  in  days  of  old 11 

The  sky  is  bleak,  a  wintry  breeze 112 

The  sky  is  clearing,  the  rain  is  gone 113 

The  sun  rose  softly  through  warm  mists  of  Spring     ....       2 

The  sun  sinks  down  the  west 116 

The  wild  hawk  silent  in  his  cage 5 

The  wind  roars  through  the  night 42 

The  Winter  mists  are  on  the  hill 112 

This  hour  to  thee,  whereas  the  sun 7 

Three  things  I  lack  in  absence  :  first,  to  be 80 

Through  this  green  vale 114 

Thus  as  we  sped,  the  bright  sun  o'er  the  sea 1 

'T  is  Autumn  now ;  —  the  wood  upon  the  hill 31 

Two  lived  together  in  one  place 109 

We  sought  a  forest  'neath  whose  pleasant  shade 35 

When  from  his  height  the  stricken  eagle  falls 91 

When  lovers  meet  again 94 

When,  lying  in  false  warmth  of  sleep,  we  seem 88 

When  travelers  to  their  homes  return,  their  kin 85 

Where  are  you  gone,  my  friend  ?     I  had  a  look 97 

Who  is  she  that  you  love  ? 17 

Ye  loves  that  visit  me,  I  know  not  how 78 

You  bid  me  show  a  gladness,  to  appear 89 


THE  LittKAKI 
UNIVERSITY  OP  CALIFORNIA 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


UMJW 

2  9  1975 
91976 


Form  L9-17m-8,'55(B3339s4)444 


UCLA-Young  Research   Library 

PS2409.M7  A17  1894 
y 


L  009  567  676  3 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  221  733   7 


